


Off Piste

by 7PercentSolution, J_Baillier



Series: You Go To My Head [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure, Anger Management, Angst, Consulking neurosurgeons, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Holidays, Injury, John likes hot chocolate, M/M, Medical husbands, Mycroft prefers aprés-ski to the actual skiing, Mycroft waxes poetic about wine, Neuroanaesthetist!John, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Protective John, Relationship Tension, Romance, Sex in a chalet, Sherlock being his usual terrible patient self, Sports, neurosurgeon!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22925041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution, https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: John thinks a holiday should be a relaxing affair with sex and good food and lounging around and maybe a bit of fresh air. Sherlock thinks it should be about a controlled fall down a mountainside at considerable speed. Our doctors, with big brother Mycroft in tow, head to Verbier for a skiing holiday.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: You Go To My Head [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/392395
Comments: 564
Kudos: 333
Collections: Johnlock in the great outdoors





	1. On Piste

**Author's Note:**

> [[an index and guide to all of J. Baillier's Sherlock stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011148)]
> 
> Chapters 1 to 6 were originally drafted by 7PercentSolution, and started life as a gift to her beloved co-author. Chapters 4, 7 and 8 are pretty much co-authored (LOL — the beta who liked it so much, she joined in the fun!). 
> 
> This story follows on from J_Baillier's [Christmas 2.0](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21833797), the preceding part in the _[You Go To My Head](https://archiveofourown.org/series/392395)_ series. There's never been a better time to get to know these medical husbands.

The cloud of vaporised breath that emerges from Sherlock is a sign that I can understand, even if I can't hear the accompanying huff of annoyance because of the conversations of the other skiers.

"Hey." I turn around to see him fidgeting with his goggles as a way of dealing with the inevitable delays in the long queue for the cable car from Medran to Ruinettes. At an altitude of 2,200 metres, even once we get off it, it will only be to join queues for the next set of chair lifts.

Mycroft tuts, "Patience, brother mine. At least the new six-seater chairlift to La Chaux is in operation now."

Sherlock's sigh vaporises in the two-degrees-below-zero temperature. "Every minute we spend getting there means more idiots will have carved up the surface."

I can't help smiling; my husband's eagerness is nothing new. Sherlock is like a coiled spring, shifting his weight from foot to foot in his black Scarpa Freedom RS 120 boots (he's explained all about them to me so many times the model details are now etched into my memory as well). Even in walk mode, the high-performance boots weigh a lot more than the pair that I've rented. I'm resigned to the fact that Sherlock takes his skiing as seriously as he does his diving, meaning top-end equipment, the preferred specs of which are the result of years of testing, purchased with utter fanaticism. Rental gear may be fine for me, but I know that his sensitivity to what materials he is wearing, and the fit of the gear is as important to him in skiing as it is in diving.

The explanation came when we were packing for this trip. "I can't waste any energy or thought on what I am wearing or my equipment; distraction is not just annoying but positively dangerous."

As usual, Sherlock paid for a first-class air ticket for us both. I keep insisting he shouldn't waste his money like that since I'm fine in coach, but he won't hear of it. Flying SwissAir has the additional perk that they don't charge for ski gear, and Sherlock would have paid the surcharge, anyway so he could take his ski wear bag, boot bag and the skis in addition to his hand luggage and his checked bag of holiday clothes. We needed a porter at Zurich airport, and Mycroft's driver had blanched when he tried to fit everything into the boot of the car before driving us to Verbier.

There is a muffled chirp behind us which causes Mycroft to fumble about trying to get his skis into one hand along with his poles and then finally fish his phone out of his down jacket.

Scanning the text, he announces, "Good. The _Le Dahu_ restaurant has confirmed our table, John. Are you sure you don't want to join us, Sherlock?"

I can't see through the mirrored lens of Sherlock's goggles, but I recognise the way his head moves up and away—that's an eye roll for sure. "No, thank you." It's barely polite. No one else is wearing their goggles in the lift; I imagine Sherlock does so to avoid other people. His sunglasses are seldom removed outside our hotel room when we're on holidays in warmer climates. He has a new pair of goggles with a prescription since he'd got glasses pretty recently.

"Your loss. I hear their versions of local dishes are superb. After lunch, John, we can meander back down and avoid the late afternoon crowds on the Medran lifts. Tomorrow we can move to Savoleyres. It's a bit quieter, and the blue pistes are good for intermediate skiers. From the top, we get a wonderful view and then there's a nice gentle piste all the way back into town. I've done it several times, so know how to avoid the trees. If Sherlock could be bothered, there are some good red runs in there, too."

"Boring."

I can't resist a dig. "So, while Mycroft and I pootle around on the easy stuff, I hope you are taking time to get your ski legs back."

" _Ski legs…_ what's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, like _sea_ legs." Sometimes I like to gently tease him for his literal-mindedness.

"I'm not in a boat; no waves are involved." He stays in his _I-won't-be-teased_ mode. "Today's routes are the black run from Attelas down to Lac des Vaux, up to Chassoure, back down to the lake, then back up to Attelas on the chair lift and down the black runs down through Ruinettes ending up at the Carrefour", rattling his itinerary off at the speed of light. "I should be back by three," he concludes.

"So like you not to even squeeze in a red one first to warm up safely," his brother chides and gets what is likely a dirty look from behind the goggles.

At least these black runs are not off-piste. I still worry about him skiing alone, so I ask, "You're wearing your transponder?"

"Of course, but it's not needed. There are so many webcams; it's as bad as London's CCTV. The patrols on the pistes are everywhere; they close them if there is the slightest hint of an avalanche."

"Be careful," I plead.

"They're maintained routes, not the wilderness. But yes, John; I will be careful."

There is a trace of patience in Sherlock's tone that I accept as an acknowledgement of my right to express concern about my husband.

Behind us, Mycroft snorts. "That's not what you said to Mummy."

Sherlock had rather brusquely brushed aside Violet's parting comment to take care and to avoid all dangers when she and George had said goodbye on their way to Geneva for some shopping before flying home on New Year's Eve. "You will take caution from your husband but not your family," she had lamented.

"John _is_ family." Sherlock countered with some vehemence.

"I was not casting aspersions. Perhaps I should have specified _blood relatives._ " That had ended the conversation.

Now, I quip at the two brothers, "Children, no fighting. We're here to have fun."

I really hope their bickering is not going to undermine the general sense of peace and goodwill that has marked this Christmas compared to last. Christmas two point oh is what I've dubbed it in my head, given how horrible the previous one had been. All in all, it's been a great year for us after the rocky start because Sherlock has worked hard to re-boot his relationship with his parents. After his dad's illness, and the effort he's put into getting Violet to accept that he's a grown adult now, Sherlock deserved a Christmas that is different. The fact that he'd agreed to extend the holiday to spend time up here with Mycroft is also a sign of how things have changed. In the past, not even the offer of time on the slopes would have convinced him, if it had come with the price tag of spending five more days in his brother's company. He seems to see Mycroft as an ally, now, a part of a joint front when their parents need to be called out on their behaviour. I am so relieved that Sherlock seems to have come to terms with family, and in a way that makes me proud of him.

That said, Sherlock has been twitchy ever since he woke up, obviously keen to get on the snow. I had tried to get him to eat the amazing breakfast spread that the professional chef at the Le Blanche Place chalet had provided us but to no avail. He'd inhaled a double espresso, stuffed half a croissant into his mouth and then disappeared to get dressed in his skiing gear.

Mycroft decides to risk a bit of teasing himself. "Fun? Sherlock's idea of fun is to find the riskiest line of descent down a mountain and then challenge himself not to get killed in the process. Face it, John; you married an adrenaline junkie."

"John is hardly a stranger to danger," Sherlock protests. "He _invaded Afghanistan_."

"You make me sound like I did it all by myself like Rambo."

"I have no idea what that means."

My expression then sobers, and I refrain from voicing the thought that has comes into my head next as a reply to Mycroft: _better hooked on adrenalin than on something else._ No need to bring that up now.

"You're turning me into a broken record, you two: these are _groomed_ runs, so hardly dangerous," Sherlock re-emphasizes, slowing his words as though speaking to a child. "And I am taking things slowly. Tomorrow it will be the black run from Mont Fort, and the itinerary route to Tortin. Only on Saturday do I get to have some real fun, off-piste on the Backside."

I shuffle forward as the queue moves. Each of the cable cars takes up to six passengers, and Medran has two side-by-side cable routes, so we shouldn't have to wait for much longer. Being stuffed into a lift in our puffy clothes and cumbersome equipment with a bunch of other people is the one part of the day that I am not looking forward to.

Once it's our turn, we stow their skis and poles into the metal basket on the side of the slow-moving car. Following two pink-clad snowboarder girls, Sherlock enters and moves to the corner of the gondola so he won't have to be in close physical contact with the other passengers. He makes an exception for me so I can take a position to face him, tucking in close to his chest. There is something about dangling in a tin can from a wire cable at a vast height over snow, where every gust of wind makes me worry. Oddly, being in the open air on a chair lift doesn't have the same sense of claustrophobia for me though a fall from one would certainly break a few bones.

To get me through the next twelve minutes, I focus my attention on the vision in black that is Sherlock. My rather pedestrian down jacket is red; Mycroft is sporting a rather vibrant colour blue, and the lofted-down padding does his figure no favours—something that Sherlock could not resist pointing out this morning. In contrast, Sherlock's Kjus 7-Sphere system of sleek black layers makes him a study in monochrome. His helmet, boots, silver mirror googles—even his skis—are black. He looks like a professional skier or some sort of spy out of a Bond film. The thought makes me chuckle. And that makes Sherlock look down at me more closely. Not being able to see through the mirrored lenses to the blue eyes I love so much is a bit unnerving. As the cable car emerges from the station into the bright sunlight, I keep my eyes riveted on my husband's chest.

Verbier sits at the bottom of the Four Valleys at 1500 meters above sea level. If the delighted shrieks from the French girls are anything to go by, the next seven hundred meters up at a ninety-degree angle must be giving a splendid panoramic view of the entire central area. The beauty of the view is lost on me as my stomach gives a lurch.

"Not long, now." This is whispered into my ear by Sherlock, who has bent his head down and enveloped me in his arms.

People, including Sherlock's parents, sometimes still assume that I am my partner's minder, that he's always the one needing reassurance and looking after. In reality, it's very much an equal partnership these days. This, just this kind of instant understanding of each other is something that I never take for granted. Given Sherlock's own sensory issues, the fact that he doesn't seem to mind the lifts at all had surprised me the first time we skied together. What it does mean is that Sherlock knows how to help me look past my own difficulties, enduring them in exchange for the pleasure of being able to do this together. _How could anyone think he lacks empathy?_ I know how wrong that assumption is. Having difficulties recognising emotions in others and expressing his own does not mean that he doesn't have the same mirror neurons that I possess, which fire like mad when he's upset or in danger or in pain. Sometimes I sincerely believe he feels things more intensely than most people do and suffers when he cannot easily find outlets for that turmoil.

The French girls are now giggling in the background and enjoying the view and snapping selfies, as I close my eyes and lean my head into Sherlock's chest.

Our helmets clunk together, as I whisper, "I love you." He responds with a slowly spreading, contented smile that's a strange and very sherlockian combination of smug and surprised, even after all these years.

______________  
  
  


The exit is a relief; we pour out of the lift and then out of the station building in a rainbow-coloured stream onto the snow, carrying boards, skis and poles.

Sherlock shoulders his way through the throng to find a patch of open ground. There is something about the tall, slim and very determined figure in black that makes people move out of his way, allowing me to follow in his wake. As Mycroft catches up, we are lost in a frenzy of snapping boots into bindings. Next up is slipping wrist straps of the poles on, adjusting goggles and grinding my teeth as the biting cold wind whips at us. Yet within moments, I am laughing; after all the palaver, it won't be long before starting, finally, to ski.

"Parting of the ways, Brother Mine." Mycroft has his eyes on the line for the Le Chaux chair lift; Sherlock is already looking to the other side of the small plateau on which the Ruinettes station sits, the five hundred meters or so to the chairlift to Atteles.

"Take care, John. Don't let him bore you to death." With that, Sherlock plants his poles and skis away. He doesn't look back, as I watch the dark silhouette carving through the brilliant white snow.

  
________________

  
"The first time Mummy took Sherlock skiing, she was expecting a debacle, which is why he'd been left behind with Uncle Rudy for the previous three years. She bit the bullet at Tignes when Rudy was away overseas that Christmas," Mycroft explains conspiratorially.

We're sitting in the Le Dahu restaurant. The décor and menu would not have been out of place in Paris, but here we are, at two and half thousand meters up in the Swiss Alps. No road will get you up here in the winter; this establishment is for the gourmets of the skiing fraternity. With a view that no normal restaurant could rival, I am only glad that Mycroft is footing the bill. The prices are almost as sky-high as the mountains.

Our morning's adventures on the blue runs at Le Chaux had reminded me that my skill level is not likely to improve any time soon to a standard where I might be able to keep Sherlock company. A couple of awkward moments at the start of our first descent had been amusing before muscle memory kicked in. My balance always feels dreadfully off at first when I'm standing on two pieces of fibreglass rather than feet. Luckily for me, Mycroft is a patient companion, and he has refrained from making acerbic comments about my skiing prowess. He seems to enjoy watching the scenery more than he does finding great athletic challenges.

When he'd pulled me out of a snowdrift to the side of the piste, it had been with a laugh. "I promise not to tell Sherlock."

This was part of the reason I rarely want to ski with Sherlock. If I asked, I know he would accompany me to a few easier runs, but he gets to ski so rarely that I don't want to frustrate him. At one point he developed some misguided sense of duty based on the premise that, that as a married couple, we should do things together, and kept me company on his own initiative. I spent the entire time thinking that I was boring him to tears, so it was hard to enjoy the day. 

"There is an opportunity cost, but for you, I am willing to pay it," he had explained to me when I'd finally voiced my mounting embarrassment. I assured him that the gesture was appreciated, and that he was off the hook. Now, I just let him do his thing. It's a bit like his scuba diving. Give me a snorkel, and I will be happy; don’t ask me to join him exploring a wreck on the seabed.

Mycroft had calculated our journey time to utter perfection, and we'd turned up at the restaurant exactly at the slot he had booked. By the time we skidded to a halt in front of the entrance, muscles I'd forgot I even possessed had begun to complain, and the cold had started to seep into my bones.

We shared a fondue starter while recounting the slopes we'd just done. Then, after chinking our wine glasses together, Mycroft had started telling me about how skiing had become part of Sherlock's life.

"He was ten, and I was seventeen. It was the first time we'd travelled _en famille_ across the channel, and he'd never been on a winter holiday. Mother had always kept him indoors when there was snow or ice about at home, afraid he'd wander off and drown in one of the ponds on the Chailey Common. Everyone, especially Mummy, expected Sherlock to hate every bit of it — the bitter cold, the totally unfamiliar surroundings, the oddness of being on skis. Father and I had been warned to expect sensory overload, meltdowns and panic."

Mycroft lifts his fork from the steak tartare he is devouring. "I was terrified of being asked to try to teach him, so I will admit that I was relieved when Mother insisted that he be handed over to a private ski instructor on the first day. We convinced Mummy to come with us—it took some doing, she was so used to being mother-hen—and we went off to the blue pistes. When we got back to the nursery slope, we were amazed to see Sherlock coming down at speed — as if he'd been doing it all his life. The instructor was most amused; he claimed that there was no need for him to babysit a natural. Apparently, Sherlock had listened to him very carefully as he explained the beginner technique of going down like a snowplough, then demonstrated that not only could he replicate it, he was soon ready for proper turns with feet kept together."

Mycroft takes a sip of our fine claret and smirks. "By the time he was thirteen, he was better than any of us and took it very, very seriously. He was on the Harrow skiing team and won all sorts of things. Every year we spent the pre-New year holiday on the slopes because it was the only way Mummy could get Sherlock to come home for Christmas. That lasted as long as Sherlock was at school. After that, well, our parents decided that their bones were getting too old to risk a fall, and that was also about the time they discovered America as a holiday destination. Then Sherlock disappeared into London… well, you know the rest of the story."

Indeed, I do. And not wanting to discuss Sherlock's trials and tribulations behind his back means I change the topic of conversation onto the world of pharmaceuticals and the NHS, which keeps us occupied all through the main course. I opt for something with the odd name of Zurchergeschnetzeltes, which turns out to be thin slices of veal, cooked with mushrooms and onions in a wine and cream sauce, served with rösti. It is utterly delicious, and I am hungry enough to eat it all. There is something about crisp mountain air that increases my appetite.

After lunch, we head back on a fairly sedate run down to Les Ruinettes, and I am delighted that Mycroft is willing to return to Verbier on the Mayentzet chair lift rather than make me endure the cable car again.

"We might see Sherlock on the black run;" he points out as we wait to board the six-seater, "keep your eyes peeled. The red run is nearest to our route but another fifty meters to the north, we will be able to catch occasional glimpses of the black run."

As we head over the trees and then down the slope toward the town, I can see how busy the red run is. At this level, the place is heaving with teenagers, lots of them on snowboards. I'm not one of those skiers who has a problem with snowboarders. To me, anyone who can do the sort of crazy stunts they get up to earns my respect. We get treated to some real acrobatics: high spinning 360s coming off of moguls and the snow park off to the side of the main run, lots of high flights and turns. Occasionally, skiers get cut off their runs by a boarder darting in front; ski poles are raised and shaken at the intruders. The whole run is beaten flat, with no pristine snow left.

Mycroft taps my arm and points to my right. I can see skiers popping up over a brow and then dropping steeply. There are fewer snowboarders here, but enough that the faster skiers have to think of them as slalom gates and weave their way through them. I can't see any skiers all in black, so it makes me wonder where Sherlock is. It's a slim chance that we'll spot him; after all, we cannot know how long it has taken him to execute the different stages of his plan. The steeper slope means these skiers are going at what would be a terrifying speed for me, so I try not to think about Sherlock and the potential for injury that could result.

At the bottom of the chairlift, our skis connect again with the ground, and the bar holding us in is released. I always worry a bit at this stage; making a clean exit needs concentration. The result is that I almost ski right by a black-clad figure leaning up against the wall of the chair lift station. His helmet is off, and he's dragging his fingers through a mass of dark curls which would have been squashed flat in it.

Recognising Sherlock makes me stop my forward momentum with a classic snowplough, meaning that I nearly get run over by Mycroft behind me.

Sherlock pushes his goggles up and skis up to me, perches his hands on my shoulders with his poles dangling from his wrists by their straps as he bends down to deliver a warm, deep kiss that makes my knees go weak. Steadying me, he pulls back and grins.

"How was your day?" I ask.

"This is the best part of it. The rest of it was pretty rubbish."

"Oh? What happened?"

"Too many people. Too many snowboards. Even the black runs were like Piccadilly Circus in July. The snow was ridiculous by lunchtime."

Mycroft has come up behind us and rolls his eyes. "Nothing is ever good enough for you, Sherlock. I swear that even heliskiing would result in complaints about snow quality."

Sherlock doesn't reply. He pulls his goggles back down and grabs his poles again, skiing out of the station and towards the blue run that heads back to Medran. He stops just long enough to look over his shoulder and call out, "Coming, John?"  
  


________________

  
As the sun sets over the trees that we can see through the glass ceiling of our bathroom, Sherlock leans back in the clawfoot bath and lets his head rest against the edge. "Mmmmm…"

It is a rumble of contentment; I can feel it as a vibration across my back, which is leaning up against his chest. The aroma of the lavender and patchouli bath foam is rising with the steam, lending an exotic fragrance to an already decadent experience.

After negotiating our way through the crowded piste back into town, we'd headed right back to our chalet, stripped our ski gear off and headed for the sauna to warm up before coming up to our en suite bathroom. Well, I say bathroom, but that is a rather mundane word for something larger than our bedroom back home at Baker Street. Lashings of hot water and no groaning pipes make this bathroom a whole different experience to our flat.

"I must have a word with Mrs Hudson; I wonder if we could get her to re-do the bathroom. I've become attached to that monsoon shower," Sherlock mutters.

Under the spray of that wide, square shower plate he'd washed my hair; his touch had been sure and sensuous, not to say purposefully arousing. Before I had a chance to take that further, he'd left the glass-walled stall and poured us this bath.

Whatever ideas I had about a quick march to the super king-sized bed, that was not his plan. "More heat and massage; your shoulder is still tight as a coiled spring. This will help and keep you from waking me up at night with tossing and turning and then padding off to knock back an ibuprofen."

He's right, of course. Skiing asks a lot of my calf and thigh muscles, not to mention my knee joints, but it's my injured shoulder that suffers the most. Sherlock's surgeon's fingers start working their magic before the water begins to cool; deep tissue massage of the damaged major and minor rhomboid under my trapezius muscles is soon causing me to groan obscenely and making me wonder how soundproof this room is. My cock is decidedly interested in the warm, wet, solid body cradling me from behind.

As Sherlock wraps his right hand around my chest to brush slowly upwards, I need to know if this is a tease or not. "If you go much further, I'm going to make you promise that you won't make enough noise to embarrass us both when we have dinner with Mycroft tonight." His is the bedroom next door.

Sherlock huffs and squeezes my nipple with the edge of a thumbnail, making me jerk from the exquisite combination of pain and pleasure. He leans over to put his lips close to my ear. "Me? You're the one who's been biting the pillow for the past week."

"Yeah, well, I'm not about to go full throttle when your parents are in the next bedroom. Bit awkward, being as loud as we are at home, when family members are around."

"Mycroft can go get stuffed," Sherlock declares petulantly.

I can't stop a giggle escaping to echo on the slate walls of this pleasure palace called a bathroom. "I'm sure he'd be happy to find someone to oblige, but there is no need to rub it in that he's unaccompanied on this trip."

"He's too busy stuffing his face with cake. Probably into his second slice of Baumkuchen, or perhaps a Zuger Kirschentorte. He nearly swooned when the chef offered to deliver both for afternoon tea."

"Would you like me to get you a slice?" It would be the height of decadence to feed each other Swiss gateaux in the bath. "I could get some tea for us while I was at it."

Sherlock growls a firm " _no_ ", dropping his hand under the water to grasp my half-hard cock. "You're not going anywhere until I'm done with you."

By the time he _is_ done with me, I've grabbed a French terry facecloth and stuffed it into my mouth to stop myself from yelling the house down. It leaves a lingering taste of laundry detergent in my mouth, but it's a very small price to pay.

Sherlock pulls the plug, and I manage to clamber out, my legs quivering as he towels me dry.

"You're spoiling me. Let me return the favour," I offer, and not just out of husbandly duty. I will never get tired of watching his enjoyment of what I'm doing to him, really focusing on him and relishing that fact that he's never let anyone see him like this.

"Later, after dinner. Why do you think I gave Mycroft that particular Christmas gift?"

The penny drops. The chalet flat has a small media room off to the side of the sitting room, with a wall-sized screen and luxurious seating — and high-end headphones so that the system can be used when others are sleeping. The DVD Sherlock had given his brother was a rare copy of a 1946 noir detective film, Black Angel, starring a couple of actors I'd never heard of.

"Not one of the classics," Sherlock had explained to Mycroft. "You'll have to learn all the lines on this one."

The thought keeps me smiling all through our lovely candle-lit dinner as we chitchat with Mycroft. After we retire upstairs, we have eighty minutes of high-volume sex while Mycroft is cocooned in the media room, sipping a hideously expensive French brandy and oblivious to anything but the story of a falsely convicted wife (a beautiful blonde played by June Vincent) and Martin, an alcoholic pianist (played by Dan Duryea) who team up to clear her husband of the murder of a singer who had been Martin's wife. We'd watched the film at home before Sherlock had dropped the DVD into a gift bag.

Needless to say, a good night is had by all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a little-known fact that Arthur Conan Doyle was an avid skier, an intensive two-year fling that established him as a winter sports prophet and pioneer. He had arrived in Davos in October 1893 with his gravely ill wife; she had tuberculosis. He'd financed her cure in a Davos sanitorium by selling their house and furniture in London, sending his two small children to live with their grandmother — and killed off his Sherlock, abandoning his character and the celebrity that came with his writing for the Strand Magazine. When his wife recovered, he had time on his hands, so taught himself to ski. On 23 March 1894, the creator of Sherlock Holmes became the first Englishman to cross the 2,440m Maienfelder Furka pass above Davos and ski down to Arosa on the other side. The Conan Doyles returned to London, where Sherlock was resurrected. Arthur's wife survived until 1906.


	2. Black Run

_Take a deep breath_. Stilling my initial sense of anxiety about the annoying presence of so many people, I push my way into the crowd waiting for the lift to the top of Mont Fort.

Rationalise. This is necessary; pain before pleasure. I can't get to where I need to be without this. It doesn't help that the gondola up here at Col des Gentianes makes it easy for the tourists to reach the highest point in the four valleys of Verbier. At three thousand three hundred meters, many come just to see the 360-degree views that give them both the Matterhorn and Mont Blanc. The wretched tourist trap is complete with refreshments; most of the sightseers will have a drink or some hot chocolate at the inappropriately named Igloo du Mont Fort. Luckily, Mycroft hasn't decided to accompany me here, for something to add to his cholesterol levels. I don't think I could stand his company at the moment. It's not his fault; I have reached my maximum tolerance level for being near other people.

The press of bodies in the queue makes me nauseous and their brightly coloured down-filled jackets is an assault on the eye. Playing with my poles on their wrist straps gives my fingers something to do that isn't quite blatant stimming. I keep my gaze firmly on my boots, trying to ignore the cascade of languages being chattered by the crowds. My brain doesn't want to co-operate, blithely translating the French, Italian, German, Russian… wait… was that Farsi? Yes, definitely. An Iranian refugee, who has been living in the canton for at least thirty years, if the perfectly pronounced French name of chef Fabrice Taulier at _La Cordée_ is anything to go by. Mycroft had oozed appreciation about this man's cooking last week while moaning that it had taken me so long to agree to this skiing trip that he'd missed the chance to get a booking at the restaurant.

"The last table went a full month before you even asked," I'd replied, in part to stop our mother from using it as yet another reason to complain about me. This Christmas has been better than last year — how could it not be? Even so, I still found it challenging. Something about being trapped in a house with family is claustrophobic for me, no matter how much I appreciated having John with me. Mycroft's house in Zurich is neutral ground, and that helped keep things civil. I will admit to being relieved to see that Dad has made a good recovery from the chemo, and seemed to be in good form. Mother still clucks too much over him, but at least it meant she had been less offensively pushy when it came to me.

As the crocodile of people inches forward towards the gondola station up to Mont Fort, the reason why I had dawdled before deciding on this trip becomes ever more annoying: too many damned holidaymakers cluttering up the landscape, getting between me and what I want to do. The man in front of me must have nearly bathed this morning in a disgusting aftershave. The stench of it offends my nose and makes me want to sneeze. He's already got a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck getting up the first two lifts to this point. He's overweight and obviously not intending to use the skis he is carrying. Moving this much lard down the black run would be a recipe for disaster.

I have to stifle an urge to tell him not to bother with the journey; he will have better fodder if he heads to Les Chaux's restaurant where Mycroft took John for lunch yesterday.

I left the two of them this morning having a lazy breakfast at the chalet. They have no desire to find the fresh snow that I want. For them, waiting is a benefit; by mid-morning, the blue runs will be groomed to total boredom and suit them both.

I'm after something more interesting today, given that yesterday's skiing had been a total waste of time. The piste had been so bashed that there was nothing left of interest beyond waiting at the bottom for John to show up. The run had been spoiled by a ridiculous number of people — both skiers and the godawful snowboarders.If things don't improve today, I'm going to regret ever agreeing to come here during what has to be one of the busiest times of the year.

Luckily, what happened _aprés-ski_ yesterday evening had compensated a bit, but I'd woken up in what Mycroft had called one of my moods. I couldn't be bothered to control my antsy-ness. Why should I always be the one to mask my feelings, to pretend that everything is fine when it isn't, at least not for me? I know what I need, and it is waiting for me at the top if I can ever get there. When I'd left John, he'd pulled me into a hug and told me to calm down and take care, sensing that I am on edge. I had to stifle my immediate reaction, which would have been to tell him that I am not an idiot; I am here to ski, and I need to get on with it. Instead, I gave him a kiss and told him I'd want a sauna and a massage tonight. I have learned to moderate some of my language around him; that's what husbands are supposed to do, isn't it — learn to avoid pushing each other's buttons?

Finally, _finally_ … the slow-moving queue deposits me into a gondola. Precious few of the passengers with me in the car look like they are here for the same reason I am. While they are rubber-necking at the views, I occupy the time by deducing which ones are the real skiers. Without John to distract from his claustrophobia this time, I worm my way towards the door so that when we get to the station, I can make a quick getaway.

As most of the jostling passengers alight onto the deck at the station and head straight for the viewing platform, I've grabbed my skis and am heading in the opposite direction. As soon as I get onto the snow, I see that four others are behind me, and starting to get onto theirs.

 _Success._ Is it ridiculous of me to take pleasure in the fact that all but one of them I'd deduced when we were in the cable car? The exception makes me smirk. The young man in a ridiculously bright orange down jacket may well be biting off more than he can chew. No doubt the other three accompanying him have talked him into this, and he is telegraphing his anxiety with shaking hands as he tries to close a buckle.

As I slip into my own bindings, their banter reaches me.

"–– _éuna scarica di adrenalina garantita."_

_"I migliori dossi del resort."*_

Actually, it's not. The best moguls are over in the Chassoure-Tortin runs, but I have no intention of telling this Italian crew where to go, except to get out of my sight as fast as their skis will carry them if they start getting in my way. I hate skiing when there is a pack of people all starting at the same time,so I loiter, hanging back a bit, waiting for them to go first. Over the years, I have learned that there is a brief moment when the initial crowd has gone off on their runs before the next gondola arrives with yet more skiers. In that window of opportunity, it is possible to feel that I am alone on the slope.

As I wait at the top allowing the foursome to get away, I scan the descent, plotting a line that hasn't been totally trampled to death by other skiers. It's a more challenging position on the steeper left side of the slope, up tight against the line of red-topped poles showing the edge of the piste. At this hour of the morning, this part is in the shade; for some reason, that seems to repel a lot of skiers. The resort's piste caterpillars can't manage a slope this steep, and the long run of icy hardcore moguls make their work next to impossible, too. I won't hit the corrugations of a groomed piste until the end of the moguls. A true test of knees, balance and power, control and speed — in short, everything I enjoy about skiing.

_Now._

I push off and feel the compacted snow connecting with the wax on the skis. Last night, after dinner, I had spent an hour hot-waxing the skis to perfection. Is it the chemistry that intrigues me? Only after I have seen and felt the snow, and then assessed the next day's weather forecast can I make the right decision about which wax to use. Tomorrow will be different; the off-piste conditions will require a completely different kind of wax, and it will be colder, too, on the backside of Mont Fort.

As the steep incline's gravity grabs me, I stop thinking about wax or tomorrow. _Focus._ Entering the mogul zone just in front of the shadows, I keep my head level, letting my knees take the strain to keep the skis in contact with the snow. At one point, I have to cut so sharply that I'm almost horizontal; my left hand dips into the snow, and there is a great cloud of powder that rises enough to catch the sunlight.

The idiot in the orange suddenly intrudes into my line of sight. He is stupendously stupid — obviously scared of the mogul bumps, he's trying desperately to ski around them as if they were obstacles. The other disadvantage is that his technique means he's turning so frequently that it really slows his pace down, and the rest of his party has left him far behind. He's also made the mistake of moving away from the centre of the mogul field, veering to the left where I am. Here, the bumps are fewer in number, but the angle of descent is steeper, and he is consequently speeding up. Even at this distance, I can see his body language is all wrong: muscles tensed, hands not in front, his poles in the wrong position to help him in the turns.

Forced to abandon my choice of line, I move further to the left of the idiot, into the steeper area, knowing that this run has even more potential in it. Shoving away awareness of anyone else, I have to focus on myself. On the first four moguls, I turn at the top of the bump, actually using their height to increase my speed. The rhythm starts to pick up, and I'm finding that deliciously sweet spot—my mind empties of everything but the moment, feeling more connected to my body, at last bridging the gap that perpetually separates the two in my normal life. There is something about the sensation, the need to focus completely, to push directly past my brain when processing all the sensory inputs so I can connect straight to my body, channelling every sensation, leaving no time for over-thinking or scripting or anything but the _now._ I am feeling the mountain and its snow in a way that somehow by-passes my usual thought processes.

As the initial adrenaline spike starts to ease, I begin to vary my technique, sometimes using the bigger bumps to control my speed rather than accelerate. Turning at the back of the mogul, planting my pole on the higher part of the mound, I'm using that height as a brake to keep my head and body over the skis at the perfect level.

Suddenly, everything seems to slip into a higher gear. Is it muscle memory? Hard to say, all I know is that I'm not thinking at all anymore, it becomes a case of _being_ rather than doing. Nothing else matters — my entire existence becomes the sound of the skis cutting through the snow, the sinuous movement of my body in a dance with the mountainside. I am riding the current of the slope, knowing it in my muscles, my whole body, every sinew and tendon, muscle and bone. I am integrated, body and mind merged into one, knowing exactly what to do and when, and how, to make my way down the forty-degree slope without fear, without conscious thought.

It is the most liberating experience — even better than diving, which is all about the balance between being in an alien environment and yet being able to feel secure and confident in it. I have to think all the time when I am diving. Here, halfway through the mogul field, my brain is subordinate — no, almost disconnected — from my body, which is in charge and feeling the mountain through every sensation I possess. I can taste the snow; I feel the texture of the ice on the surface of it. The skis are extensions of the skin on my feet as if the boots weren't even there. I feel the tiny particles of ice on my face, whipped up by the wind caused by my speed of descent. The sound is like nothing else in the world—a slicing shusssh of waxed ski against the surface that beats a rhythm of my movement through the snow, punctuated by my breath which is starting to come in sharper gasps as the physical demands of riding this mountain ask more and more of what I have to give.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, like it.

I know this run. It is a long one, with the main danger being accumulating too much speed to be able to handle it. So, I start to pace myself, using the moguls to moderate my speed. I ski into the backside of the bumps, plant my pole to feel the break and then switch my direction of travel. By the time I do this the third time, I am back in control — gravity cannot conquer me. I see each of the bumps, my body makes the decision for me, and then my gaze moves onto the next one. My hands are in front, weight perfectly distributed, head level, no matter how the surface beneath drops or rises.

In front of me to my right suddenly a spot of orange intrudes into my field of vision; the idiot is getting into trouble. Despite starting off well before me, he's been slower, very unsure and I can see he is trying to do every turn into the back of the moguls, afraid to use them. Worse still, he's keeping his skis too close together — the classic mistake of the intermediate skier who fails to realise that he needs to keep the skis hip-width apart, so they can move independently of one another. The guy is losing his proper posture on the bumps, leaning too hard into the turn and putting his body weight too much on one ski, virtually standing on the inside ski. If he doesn't even it up, bending his left knee to redistribute some of the weight and keep his outside ski in meaningful contact with the snow, he's going to come to grief.

It's like watching a car crash in slow motion. The idiot is throwing his upper body into the turn prematurely, forcing his skis to follow, which means he's rotated his chest, head and shoulders too far when the time comes to turn in the opposite direction. Every turn he makes gets more and more extreme and unbalanced. It goes from bad to worse as he makes his next turn, moving not only his inside ski but over-rotating his body, exaggerating the effect and pushing his weight even more on the inside ski.

His friends have already cleared the mogul field and are swooping down the straight, speeding away, totally oblivious to their friend's struggles. As he reaches the next mogul, he tries to compensate for the problems he's having with his outside ski but ends up producing the dreaded A-frame, when his two skis are separated with his knees still tightly together.

It's only a matter of time before tragedy hits, and the crash of the orange down-jacketed skier takes place about twenty feet in front and thirty to the left of my line. He ploughs his inner ski straight into the mogul which throws him up into the air. Poles and skis akimbo, he is flipped over in a somersault, landing hard on his back on the top of the next mogul. His skis are in the air, not in a position where he can get his feet back under him and control the slide, possibly regaining control.

His speed and angle of the descent means there is no way to slow himself, and he is being rolled, first onto his back and then face down, literally bouncing off the backside of the moguls, sliding down into the trough and then being thrown into the air again to smack hard, shoulder first against the top of the next bump. There is an explosion of snow that obscures some of his descent; whirling glimpses of his poles and the orange jacket are all that I can see.

Distracted by the sight, I nearly lose my own rhythm and carve a little too deeply into the backside of the mogul in front of me. Suddenly my own control is at risk, and I have to concentrate, slowing myself down over the next three moguls enough that I can dare look over again to see what had happened to the idiot.

The sight of a skier face-down in the snow, unmoving, is enough to sound an alarm in my head, so I change my angle to make my way to him. Even with a helmet, concussions and head injuries happen, and spinal injuries are not uncommon. As I ski across to where he is lying, I try to re-play the crash. The guy had thrown out an arm when he landed on his shoulder, a stupid way to try to break his fall onto the first mogul, that means he's probably going to have broken some bones — an arm, elbow or shoulder most likely. If he's lucky, maybe only a collarbone.

A quick glance down the slope makes me realise that his companions have not stopped, not noticed that their less-experienced friend has fallen. Stupid, stupid…

As I come to a halt beside the fallen skier, I look back up the slope to see that another group of skiers has started their descent. With the fallen skier's position in a trough between two moguls, he won't be visible to the new arrivals — they could literally ski straight into him. Training kicks in, and I bend to unbuckle myself from the skis, jamming them upright into the snow in an X that should signal to the that someone is injured and in need of help. Maybe someone has seen the crash from the gondola up to the Igloo? They should tell the station staff that a skier is down, alerting the patrol.

In the meantime, I have to assess Mr Orange Jacket's condition. As I kneel, I have to think for a moment — what language had they been speaking when I overheard their conversation at the top?

Italian; yes, for sure. " _Non muoverti!_ " In this position, if he has damaged his neck, any sudden movements could exacerbate an injury.

There is no reply and no movement.

Shedding my helmet and gloves as fast as I can, I bend down closer to listen while using my fingers to dig beneath his face, opening a passage through the snow to his nose. When I withdraw my hand, there is blood on it. Cuts from the ice when he landed face down? The airway sounds okay to my ears; he's breathing rapidly, and definitely unconscious, but as I hold the back of my hand in front of his mouth, I can feel air moving. A touch to his wrist shows me his heart rate is elevated, no doubt due to the trauma; blood pressure still tolerable judging by the firmness of the radial pulse. Should he be turned and rearranged into the recovery position? Can I immobilise his cervical spine while doing it? Unlikely.

I can hear voices approaching and stand up quickly to show our location.

"Hey, is he okay?" The first one to reach us is an American if the accented English is to be trusted.

"No. Unconscious, badly injured, and we need to get help here fast."

His friend comes up behind. "Wow, that looks serious."

"If you want to help, get down to the _telecabiné_ station at 1 Col-des-Gentianes and tell them where we are. And if you see three Italian guys waiting for someone, tell them their friend has been hurt."

The guy nods. "I'll give you a call, Charlie, when I get down there," he tells his friend.

I realise I'm an idiot — I have my phone with me, too. I prise open the placket on my Kjus jacket to extract it; John had made me upload the resort's ski patrol emergency app last night, and I thumb the phone on, waiting for what feels an eternity as the phone searches for a signal.

Rather than risk any misunderstandings, I revert to English when the call is answered, snapping out "This is Doctor Sherlock Holmes; I'm with an injured skier on the Verbier Mont Fort black run, mogul field. He's unconscious but breathing; I suspect a head injury and judging by the high-energy impact he's had, major fractures are likely. I will wait for the ski patrol to arrive."

I'm told that the slope is too steep here for a caterpillar or snowmobile rescue, so they are sending a sledge. The My144 app has automatically provided the patrol with the exact GPS coordinates. After telling the American to keep watch and warn off any other skiers, I kneel back down beside the victim to recheck his vitals. Now I start to do a visual check to see if I can identify any obvious breaks. His left ankle is turned in an abnormal position, almost thirty degrees from the vertical, held there by his boot still attached to the ski—it has to be a dislocated fracture. The ski trousers make feeling for pulses impossible; unclipping the boot from the ski is possible, but if the fractures are compound, the movement could sever an artery, damage a nerve or worse. Then again, the limb being in such an awkward position is likely compromising circulation. Having never been presented with a patient in this situation, I am a bit unsure of how best to proceed. I check his pulse again, and his respiration rate — no worse than before, but he hasn't regained consciousness. His nose is likely broken but not bleeding profusely; the trickle has already stopped thanks to coagulation and shouldn't be clogging up his lower airways. John would know whether I should move him to the recovery position even though he might have a spinal fracture. Anaesthetists tend to have slightly different priorities from surgeons.

Luckily, we don't have to wait for long; the American starts shouting, "I can see a patrol guy; they wear orange, yeah? Coming down like a bat out of hell, and he's got a monster backpack on."

From an objective point of view, the next fifteen minutes are fascinating, watching the ski patrol member assemble a rescue sledge and organise the evacuation. As soon as the call went in, the piste had been closed to all traffic, and the cable car to 6-Gentianes suspended. The spinal board and head collar the patrolman has brought in the backpack ensure we can transfer the unconscious victim with the minimum of movement; the down bag that encircles the sledge to keep him warm has ingenious slots cut for the runners. I am impressed with the paramedical training that the Swiss patrolman has had; every move is well-rehearsed and authoritative. I may be a neurosurgeon, but he is the expert in dealing swiftly with evacuating someone with these injuries, so I have no problem with him taking the lead. Once he's confirmed my initial assessment, he gets on the radio to call in an air ambulance to meet us on the flat part of the piste.

We start the descent. What would normally take me less than four minutes of skiing has to be taken very carefully and very slowly, given the cargo. Skiing while towing a sledge is not easy, and on a slope this steep, it is very difficult indeed. Getting out of the mogul field takes ages, given that the patrolman pulling the sledge wants to keep it as level as possible. The American who stopped to help is told to go on; he skies away to re-join his friend at the station. But I am reluctant to do the same; I want to see the victim safely into the helicopter. The patrolman decides I can be drag-anchor; hands me the strap at the back of the sledge and tells me to help him keep it in line with his route.

Once we are out of the bumps, our speed becomes a danger. If the patrolman were to lose control of the sledge, a crash could kill the victim. Yet there is a pressing need to move because if the head injury is severe, then every minute counts as the brain swells within the limited space inside the bony cranium. While we are skiing to slow our speed, the helicopter comes up the valley, picking a line well clear of the gondola station's cables. We change course to where it is landing on the far right of the flat.

The moment the helicopter touches down, the doors open and a crew of medics are out on the snow, moving far enough away from the rotors to avoid the down draught. I speak fluent French, so can give a full explanation of the injury mechanism and my findings, after which the victim is loaded onto the helicopter still strapped in the evacuation sledge. He will be taken to the hospital at Sion; by ambulance, the journey would have taken almost an hour — by helicopter, up and over the mountains, it will be barely ten minutes.

As the helicopter lifts, the patrolman asks me if I knew his name and I have to admit that I do not, but I think I may be able to help him find out. We both ski to the cable car station, in the hope of finding the poor bugger's friends.

The inside of the station is jam-packed with people waiting to ascend; the queue snakes out the back door. The noise is deafening, and I have to fight an urge to escape. As soon as the patrolman enters, the victim's three friends encircle him. At some point, they must have realised that their friend was the one who was being rescued, but they'd been barred from trying to get back up to the mogul field by the station officials. They marshal the exits to ensure that civilians do not interfere with a rescue. It's obviously a well-rehearsed routine and makes me appreciate how often skiers must get injured and require treatment in the area.

Shocked and distressed, the Italians are demanding to know what had happened to their friend, Antonio Fabiano. Y _ou talked him into something way over his head and abandoned him_ , is what I want to say to them. How many times has this sort of thing happened? Peer pressure, the need to be seen to be 'brave' in front of one's friends — pride and stupidity combine to form idiocy on the slopes. The local hospital must be full of the victims who fall prey to such a combination. It makes me angry, but I hold my tongue because it won't change what has happened.

_______________________________

Despite the delay, I press on with my plan, making my way from the station to the top of the Tortin tour. Once a black run, this has now been reclassified as an _Itinéraire_. Not groomed, but it is marked and patrolled to ensure the conditions are good enough for the amount of traffic it gets. The only other thing to be aware of is that it is not controlled for avalanches. Today, the avalanche rating of 2 out of 5 is only moderate,and none of the slopes are showing any visible signs of stress, which is why I had decided to leave my emergency backpack at the chalet. Tomorrow — off piste — it will be necessary. Here, it is just one more encumbrance I can do without.

Unfortunately, while the helicopter was on the ground, the tour route had been closed, and there is now a considerable crowd waiting at the top for it to re-open.

It takes almost another ten minutes before the first set of skiers are allowed to start. The resort staff are only allowing groups of ten to depart at any one time, which is probably sensible to avoid accidents, but it only adds to my frustration. I check my phone for messages; I'm hoping to get one from the guide about tomorrow morning's start time. Signal reception is surprisingly good on Verbier's slopes, even if the bright sun makes it hard to read the screen. What it tells me is that I have no messages,and my battery is running low. I turn it off and shuffle forward as the next lot of ten are released. I can hear a voice in my head that sounds like John's- _be patient_. It's hard; what was supposed to have been a day of being away from people, has turned into one filled with too many of them.

Finally, finally, it's my turn, and like everyone else, I have to start by schussing on the flat to get any forward momentum going. If all had gone to plan before the idiot's accident, I would have had more than enough speed coming off the black run to carry me straight onto the itinerary route.

It's not until I get over the brow of the hill that my speed picks up to anything approaching acceptable. Even then, the slope is wide and uneventful. Unlike Mont Fort, the challenge here is at the last segment of the run, when the steep angle and challenging moguls give it a reputation as one of the most difficult in the Swiss Alps.

Two minutes into the run, the flat, slow slope gives way to a steep drop and a hefty mogul field. Intermediate skiers are nervously picking their way through — which is idiotic. The thing about labelling a run black, red or blue is that it should help people be sensible about their choices. An _itinéraire_ route sounds like a country ramble, and it can entice people into over-estimating their skills. Dotted down the slope, I can see quite a few skiers have come to a full stop, sometimes in pairs or threes. Whether they are catching their breath or gathering their courage, it does mean that for the more expert skiers, the run down looks more like a slalom course as they are forced to pick lines that avoid stationary people.

Sighing, I start the descent. Within a minute, I am on the narrow ledge to the right and slowing my speed to deal with the fact that there are three skiers who seem terrified of the steep drop to their left. The yellow poles that mark the route here are less than three meters apart, so it becomes something of a bottleneck if a skier in front suddenly takes fright. Even once off the ledge, the only possible way down is to tack across the bowl. Inexperienced skiers end up following other ski tracks in the snow. Above me, stranded on a rocky ledge, I can see one such skier who has been led astray and is now attempting to turn around and ski back to where he'd made his misjudgement.

While I love the challenge of needing to constantly estimate what I am capable of and making the right choices on a split-second basis, a lot of skiers end up making bad choices because they don't understand themselves well enough. While the moguls on the Chassoure-Tortin route are more difficult than these, it is the angle of descent on this one that makes it a greater challenge. It is steep, and I can feel my adrenaline and cortisol levels rising. My breathing becomes more laboured as the stress accelerates. This is skirting the very edge of my skill set, and the feeling of challenging that boundary is thrilling.

I switch tacks to avoid another skier, who is talking — no, shouting— as he descends. I think GoPro cameras are even worse than snowboarders. Why do skiers feel the need to provide a running commentary on their descent? Social media has a lot to answer for when it encourages people to brag to their friends about their latest escapades. Trying to be an actor in your own live-action movie is one more distraction that a skier doesn't need. I would never use a camera to record my descents, lest John sees one and never lets me ski again. It is far worse for someone to watch a difficult run than it is to ski it if you are not being distracted.

Away from the budding movie director bragging at megaphone volume to his friends online, I regain some of the composure I am looking for and continue the descent. If I had been able to merge the black run and the itinerary route into a single descent, it would have been almost a full vertical kilometre descent and taken about ten to twelve minutes. As it is, the continuing disruption to my journey and my concentration takes a toll, and by the time I reach the flat run out to the Tortin cable car station, I am breathing heavily and actually pleased to see the end of it.

My earlier idea had been to now go up to the top of the Chassoure and ski back down through the mogul field, but the mood is no longer with me. Whatever peace I had been seeking, events have conspired to rob me of it. A quick glance at the 4 Vallées interactive map on my phone shows me my dilemma. I am on the wrong side of the resort to make a return by road easy, even if I were to call the chalet to take advantage of the chauffeur pick-up. It would take ages to get up to Siviez, the village further down this valley. Enduring cable car lifts all the way back is another version of hell involving too many people.

I compromise. Taking the cable lift up to Chassoure, I take the Lac run down to the start of the Col des Mines _itinéraire_ and use it to get me back to Verbier. This route is quite different; more powder, wide-open space at the start. Only at tree line do the skiers start to follow each other's tracks, and then comes the descent below the cloud cover that has come in. At the end, the route junctions with a blue run that I take to return to the same black run I did yesterday, only this time there is no John to wait for at the station above the Carrefour. I join the rush hour commuters on the blue run back to Medran; everyone seems keen to end their day before the shadows get too long. Skiing at this time of the year really tails off after three-thirty; no one is willing to be caught up too high when the sun sets behind the mountains. The growing cloud cover only accentuates the murk.

As I dodge through the crowds, I wonder what I am going to tell John about the day's events. If I tell him about the accident, will he use it as an excuse to try to warn me off my plans for tomorrow? He always worries about me skiing; for some reason, it exercises his fears more than my diving, and he gives me enough grief about that. I could avoid mentioning it, and just say that I took a lunch break at Tortin instead of telling him about seeing to the injured skier.

_Discretion is the better part of valour._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"It's a guaranteed adrenaline rush."/ "Best bumps in the resort."  
> A fall on a black run this demanding can be lethal. One of the most demanding runs in the Alps, the Mont Fort mogul field is amazing. Take a look at skiers on the moguls on the following videos:[ this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMUgFMcx8Rc&fbclid=IwAR2_ouH7szvstbWBeuCFRh-qntdTA3nJ_41syKzPYSYrmRhElR-Mxb2oxt4) and [another](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovvywicTrMc&fbclid=IwAR3B8fuWcyqch-cqvu5SontTDuM-9P09QoLwyvzfXIe7dG3qdBi9XeP4Lcg) and [one more here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2a7189nSntQ). 
> 
> * Conan Doyle skied for one more season, crossing from Davos to the Engadine in March 1895, but the flame was already dying and he never returned. "I am convinced," he [wrote](https://www.independent.co.uk/travel/skiing/in-search-of-conan-doyle-in-the-swiss-alps-76521.html) "that the time will come when hundreds of Englishmen will come to Switzerland for the skiing season. I believe I may be the first, save only two Switzers, to do any mountain work, but I am certain I will not by many thousands be the last."


	3. Aprés-ski

"Have another slice of cake; you deserve it."

Mycroft lifts a slice of the Turta da Nuschs onto my plate before I can stop him. I'm not going to make him take it away even though it is my second one. A Swiss confection from the Graubünden canton — as Mycroft has explained enthusiastically — it contains thin layers of pastry interspersed with a mixture of chopped walnuts, honey and cream. It is sinfully rich and makes me miss Sherlock, whose sweet tooth would enjoy this combination even more than I do. If I didn't insist on a bit of variation, he'd likely live solely on honey on toast.

Mycroft looks at me rather sternly. "Do not fret, John. He will be back soon."

_How does he read my mind? Am I that transparent?_

Sherlock's older brother is smirking in that reserved, smug way of his. "I will save him a slice. He won't like the chef's choice of citronella tisane, and invariably, he'll complain about the lack of Darjeeling loose leaf, but he will enjoy this torte. Or, at least he's always liked it in the past. It's one of the few portable Swiss cakes; so many of them are so creamy that sending them by post is a nightmare, and they don't stand up to an aeroplane journey. I've been known to send him one of these as a peace offering."

"Do you need to make peace with him often like that? I thought things are getting better between him, you and the rest of the family."

"Well, after he did my surgery, things seem to have improved between us a bit. Perhaps it reminded him that I am mortal, after all. I sent him a rather larger thank-you of a cake for that good deed."*

After I finish my piece, I put my plate back in the kitchen sink but take my mug from the dining table into the living room. The sofa is made for lounging on, the log fire is crackling and adding a comforting touch, but I can see through the French doors onto the balcony that it is getting darker and that makes it hard for me to relax. I check my phone again and sigh, stifling my disappointment: no reply yet to any of my texts since before lunch. The one time I'd tried to call, the phone service had gone straight to Sherlock's voicemail.

I really try not to be the clichéd anxious spouse, wringing my hands every time he goes off to do something on his own. I know that it gets on Sherlock's nerves, and I'm aware of how fine a line there is between wanting him to be safe and being too protective. I swear that some of his recreations of choice are designed to test the boundaries of what he can physically survive, and I can mentally handle. I tell myself that I would worry in any case and try to stare him down when he protests that I shouldn't, quote, ' _wrap me in cotton wool'._ I suspect that any attempt to control or shelter him reminds him of his mother and causes an immediate need to repel it. My concern is simply based on the fact that diving and more extreme skiing are dangerous activities even if I, of course, support the idea that he deserves the right to do what he wants with his life. Truth be told, I am envious of his skill at these sports in which I seem unable to ramp up my own to the level that I could keep him company. Trying to keep up only holds him back. _'Worrying is what you do when you love someone'_ , I've told him and reminded him that there have been times when he's been worried sick about me in return.

Mycroft puts on some music — always classical with the Holmes brothers — and it makes me think of home, of Sherlock playing the violin in just his pants and a dressing gown, swaying to the music.

I accept an offer of sherry. By the time half of it is gone, the sound of the door at the bottom of the stairs opening is enough to make me sit up. The pace up the spiral staircase is familiar, and I am off the sofa in an instant — just as Sherlock comes into view. He's left his skis and all the other equipment in the locked storage in the lobby; saves tramping the place up with melting snow.

Sherlock is a vision in black; the Kjus ski wear accentuates his slim figure. His hair is plastered to his head, curls squashed by wearing a helmet for hours. His expression is hard to read until he sets his eyes on me, and then there is a warmth in those blue eyes that takes my breath away.

"Where've you been?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise that they sound more annoyed than they should have; his lack of replies to my texts has cost me more than I might have realised.

A look of confusion, then a tilt of his head. "Skiing. Where else would I have been?"

His literalness gives me a get-out, so I laugh. "Yeah, I kind of guessed that. What I meant is that I got worried when there was no reply to my texts, and it started getting dark."

He looks surprised and opens the placket on his jacket, pulling his phone out. "I turned it off just before lunch because the battery was low. I had to preserve it in case of an emergency."

 _Logical._ I cross the distance between us and wrap him in a hug. "Just glad you're back."

I bury my nose into his shoulder as his arms come up around me. He smells of sweat and crisp new snow and _him_ ; it's a heady fragrance, and I find my trousers getting a tad tight around the crotch. I'm hardly a young lad anymore, and it sometimes surprises me, the way he can instantly switch the gears in my head from anger, annoyance or worry to wanting to carry him into the bedroom.

Rather disappointingly, he detaches himself from me, stating he needs a shower. As Mycroft appears from the kitchen and raises an eyebrow at us, Sherlock heads off to our bedroom, with me trailing closely behind, giving an amusingly apologetic glance to the older Holmes.

"I'll keep you company," I suggest when Sherlock frowns at the sight of me lingering in the doorway.

Unzipping his jacket and shouldering it off, he sniffs. "I am capable of washing myself."

I have to laugh again. "Just think of it as me wanting to appreciate the view. You can tell me all about your thrills of the day."

He's now wrestling his base layer off; it clings tighter than a second skin. I have to resist the temptation to assist as it moves up to expose the taut muscles over his abdomen. When Sherlock's head is covered by a shirt, those flailing elbows can do a lot of serious damage to someone my height; I still get ribbed about the time I went into King's with a black eye and explained to Lestrade that I'd managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when Sherlock was undressing.

By the time he walks into the sky-lit bathroom, the final rays of the setting sun are turning the tips of the pine trees behind the chalet a soft pink. The lower parts of the valley are already shrouded in darkness.

Turning the shower on, sits on the edge of the roll-top bath to shed his base layer leggings. He hadn't put on his glasses after coming back; I assume he'll do so after the shower. On the slopes, he has prescription goggles. Before I can repeat my suggestion about him telling me what he's been up to, he strides naked across the stone floor, and into the stream of hot water from the monsoon shower head. The effortless grace with which his gorgeous form shifts stops my conscious thought for a moment.

He takes advantage of the gap. "Tell me about what you and Mycroft did while I clean up," he commands. This is strange; he rarely bothers to ask me about my day since such social niceties rarely occur to him. Most of the time, he can't wait to lecture me at length about _his_ day. Did he not have fun on the slopes?

I take a seat on a stool fashioned from a tree trunk. The whole penthouse flat is awash with natural wood, stone and fibres, but like this polished stool, it's a carefully curated combination of luxurious comfort and eco-chic. I pause for a moment, looking at my lap and the rather obvious sign that I am still aroused by Sherlock's presence in a way that he isn't by mine. At least not yet.

"You sure you wouldn't fancy some company in there?"

"No, thank you. I will be out in a minute." His tone is all business, and he grabs the shampoo bottle like reaching for a weapon.

Rebuffed, I shrug. "Savoleyres is everything Mycroft said it would be. The morning sun on the slope was just right for warming me up, and then we went over the top to the runs in the shade. The run from Tzoumaz to Chez Simon was a bit hairy for me — the speed in particular." I pause, expecting him to correct my French pronunciation like he always does. When he doesn't reply, I continue. "I got a little too close to one of the cable car pylons for comfort but managed to avoid it. Mycroft's suggestions for lunch were excellent: rabbit in a mustard sauce on polenta, followed by an apple tart. What did you have for lunch?"

There is a pause as Sherlock works shampoo into his hair, followed by " _Croque Monsieur_ , at Tortin. The place was heaving, so I ate it outside."

"How was it?"

"Disgusting. I binned it half-eaten. Self-service is an excuse to produce junk food at ridiculous prices." He's smoothing copious amounts of conditioner on, using his fingers to pull it through his curls. He never takes a brush or comb to his hair outside the shower since it creates an afro of his ringlets and even in the shower, he mostly just uses his fingers. I never knew how complicated it was to make his hair look as great it does before I had to help him out with it when he was in a halo vest.**

"Then you're going to be hungry."

"Am I?"

"You should be. Skiing consumes calories, especially the way you do it, so you need to consume some tonight if you want to be on top form tomorrow."

"I am not all that fond of the fatty cheeses and the cream-drenched goo that passes for most Swiss food."

"There is a sushi restaurant right across the square, in the Westin; they managed to squeeze the two of us in for a reservation when it opens at six." There's something about the simplicity of sushi that appeals to Sherlock; he can see precisely what he's eating, the flavours are not muddled by lots of spices, and he says he appreciates the artisanship used to create higher-end Japanese fare. I have learned a lot from Sherlock about the London sushi and sashimi restaurants over the years.

His head is back under the stream of water, and at first, I am not sure he's heard me, but when he pulls away to reach for the soap, he answers. "Okay, especially because Mycroft doesn't like it."

I hide my smirk. What is it about these two? It's as if Sherlock is afraid to say anything nice about Mycroft, even though I know that, deep down, there is a layer of affection under the banter and sarcasm. It may simply be the usual dynamic between little and big brothers; how am I to know? Harry and I fought a lot as kids; perhaps it sort of goes with the territory? Perhaps that is made worse in Sherlock's case because his mother always held Mycroft up as some sort of role model to him when he was a child struggling with his differences. His brother goes to great lengths to please Sherlock, but wouldn't be caught dead admitting to it.

Anyway, I have news to report that will cause my husband to smile. "Tomorrow night, we can ask the chef to prepare something you and I like. Mycroft isn't dining in — he's got a _date_."

" _What?!_ A date? With whom? Mycroft's company inflicted on some poor unsuspecting soul?" Sherlock leans away from the water and looks around the glass screen at me, his eyes wide. "Christ. I need to work out how to delete that mental image."

I smother a smile. "The guy at the next table struck up a conversation with him; they were jabbering away at each other in French for some time. Too bad I haven't a fucking clue what they were saying so can't satisfy your curiosity. All I know is that when we left, Mycroft said that he would not be dining in tomorrow because he has plans with the guy. I wasn't even sure he liked men." I have to admit Mycroft and dating is a concept that has not crossed my mind before. He's always been single, ' _married to his work'_ as Sherlock had described it.

"What he likes is his bank balance and artery-clogging cuisine. I pity the poor bastard who's desperate enough to hit on that berk. If anything, Mycroft should be trying to hitch himself a pastry chef."

Sherlock finishes getting the soap off and switches the shower off. I get up to hand him one of the enormous, fluffy, white bath sheets, wondering if we should get some of these for our flat in London.

He grabs it, muttering, "Alert the media. Someone's actually brave enough to seek Mycroft's company. No doubt it will be a one-night stand, at most; the chap will come to his senses and run for the nearest airport."

"Why are you so hard on him?"

"You don't know him as I do."

"He's always been supportive of our relationship."

"That's because he thinks it means he can shed his responsibilities about me."

"What responsibilities?" Mycroft has not been all _that_ involved in our life.

"Self-appointed. He fancied himself _in loco parentis_ when I escaped mother's clutches and asked him for help instead of the parental unit. He used to always side with her when it came to correcting my behaviour. Admittedly, he has become more of an ally lately."

It is thanks to Mycroft that we're here instead of spending the holidays in Sussex with their parents. Perhaps now is not the right time to remind Sherlock of that fact. "None of that means he doesn't deserve a bit of happiness now," I point out.

"Can you go get my micro-fibre hair towel? I left it in the sauna to dry last night."

That ends the conversation — and any opportunity for me to way-lay him into the bedroom before we go out for dinner. By the time I get back, he's already dressed in his new suit which he corrected as Delft blue when I called it navy. He is letting his wet hair drip onto a fresh towel across his shoulders.

"I could be persuaded to have a bit of that honey and nut cake as an appetiser," he tells me.

"Pudding comes after proper food," I tease him with a gentle slap on his luscious bottom before I start changing into something suitable for an evening out.

_________________  
  


We sweep into the Westin hotel, looking the part with the other patrons. There is something about Sherlock in a suit with his long Belstaff coat unbuttoned that makes a lasting sartorial impression.

The entrance to the Carve sushi restaurant is by a rather dramatic metallic red tunnel under the monumental staircase in the hotel's atrium. I should have been forewarned when Sherlock's brow furrowed at the sight, but hunger takes me through the tunnel into the foyer of the restaurant before a long-fingered hand grabs my forearm in restraint.

"Wait. Let me look at the menu." Sherlock steps to the side as a party of expensively dressed Americans arrives for the maître d to fawn over.

I glance at my watch. It's five minutes past our reservation time. "Alright."

The menu is in a lit glass case on the wall. Sherlock takes his glasses out of his jacket pocket, arranges them meticulously on his features and starts to read. He can't have skimmed more than a few lines of it before he starts shaking his head. "No, no, _no_. This will not do."

"What's wrong?" Looking into the restaurant, I can see that it looks the part of a up-market establishment. The seats at the counter are being served by a set of chefs in the centre; seeing the preparation is part of the experience, I have come to realise. There is a faint aroma of soy and grilled meat that is making me even more hungry.

"Look," he says, dismissively pointing at the menu. "It's full of this wretched fusion stuff. They take quality ingredients and then smother them in sauces designed for Western taste buds. Japanese words are then thrown in to fool the tourists. See? _Usuzukuri_ is supposed to be wafer-thin slices of halibut, but here it's used to describe scallops which are coated in…" he peers at the small print and then continues, "'Cherry tomatoes, scallions, and of all things, a _truffle sauce_." He shudders dramatically. "This isn't sushi; it's a _perversion_."

He's about to take his glasses off. "Don't," I tell him quietly. He's still so self-conscious about them, even though he looks great wearing either of the two elegant designer pairs he's got. He keeps them on, but starts making his way back to the tunnel.

I have been aware of my husband's eating habits long enough to know that this restaurant is now a lost cause. I go up to the maitre d's desk which is now served by a young woman in a vaguely oriental-looking dress while the head waiter is off getting that American party settled at a table.

"I'm afraid we have to cancel our reservation; the name is Watson."

She sighs and says, "Thank you for letting us now. I hope you have a nice evening, sir."

Outside, Sherlock is standing on the snowy pavement waiting for me, and instantly begins striding off when I join him. He has his phone out and is swiping it as I catch up to him as he announces, "There's another place that does sushi and sashimi up the road; let's try there."

From the outside, the three-star Hotel Phenix looks like everywhere else in Verbier — a modern Swiss chalet, and not particularly posh for it. Sherlock goes like a torpedo straight down a set of steps to the lower ground floor and into what to my eye looks like a gastro-pub that wouldn't look out of place in north London.

By the time I join him in the cramped reception area next to a set of coat racks, he's already caught the eye of a waitress, raising two fingers in a polite gesture with what must be a questioning expression, because she waves him over to a table for two up against the back wall.

By the time I have my coat off and have joined him, he's perusing the menu. It's just two pages instead of the thick books carried around by the waiters at the other place.

I have to ask, "How do you know this will be any better?"

"Sushi was originally pub food in Japan, to be eaten with beer."

I amend my question. "Maybe, but how do you know the food will be better?"

"Take a deep breath. The nose knows."

I follow instructions, smelling a hint of beer and not a lot else. I suppose that is the difference. Even though we're in the basement, the ambient scent is clean and fresh; all of the heady steakhouse aromas of the other restaurant are missing.

When the blonde waitress arrives, Sherlock rattles off his choices. "Miso soup, the house sashimi plate to start for me; my husband will have miso soup and gyoza chicken. Then, we'll have one of your twelve-piece mixed nigiri platters — the one with salmon, yellowfin tuna and sea bass — plus one set of two shrimp nigiri and one of unagi nigiri."

He won't eat that last one which I recognise as grilled, glazed eel on rice wrapped in seaweed, but he knows it's one of my favourites. I assume the shrimp version is for him. He really _is_ hungry.

Sherlock glances at me, looking slightly apprehensive; perhaps he's realised he's walked all over me in terms of ordering as usual "Sapporo Yebisu beer?"

When I nod, he says, "Make that two." 

"The gyoza were a good idea," I tell him once the waitress leaves. I have often ordered it as a starter at sushi establishments. Wrapped in thin dough, they're dumplings filled with meat or vegetables. Sherlock tends to snootily point out that they're not even originally Japanese but from China. This is one of our eating-out rituals; he educates me and complains about things. I don't mind. It's just one side of his passion. He never settles for less than precisely what he wants.

He doesn't disappoint me today. "Why do you want to corrupt your palate with that before sushi?"

"Because I'm _hungry_ , you berk." I'm smiling to take the sting out of my reply. "Go on, then, tell me why this place is superior. Can't be just the smell."

Sherlock leans back, looking smug. "The menu on the website is short and contains very simple listings of classic maki, nigiri and sashimi. You know you are going to get something authentic when they don't pander to the idiots who can't be bothered to know the difference and want to have the meat component of their sushi doused in mayonnaise or, lord forbid, _cooked_."

An hour later, I have to be glad of Sherlock's insistence. The food is superb, he is eating it with relish, and the beers slip down easily. The place has filled up; he tells me that about half of the customers are local if their accent is anything to go by. Not for the first time, I admire Sherlock's ear for languages.

When he eats, he doesn't like to talk, so I wait until the dishes are cleared to ask the question that has been on my mind ever since he got back. "How did the skiing go today?"

"Crowded. Too many people. Even on the routes. Christmas has a lot to answer for."

"Yeah, well, people do like to take their holidays."

"I just hope tomorrow will provide something worth remembering." He takes the last sip of his beer and raises a hand to the waitress to get the bill.

"As long as it's the right kind of memory…"

"Skiing shouldn't be like riding the underground during rush hour. I really don't think we should do this again during a holiday period. Thankfully, there are countries which skiing do not adhere to European holiday schedules. I hear good things about Niseko's powder offerings."

"That's… in Japan?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't have to be that far. We can avoid mid-term school breaks and national holidays; our co-workers who have kids will appreciate us working through those busy times. And the prices are lower, too."

"February and March are the best months here at Verbier, in any case."

"Weather forecast says there will be snow tonight."

"Good. I could do with some fresh powder. So far, the pistes have been so groomed and the routes so well-travelled that I might as well stick my skis in someone else's tracks and go to sleep. Boring."

"Boring is okay if it's safe."

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, mother."

I know I must sound like a nag; I don't want to, but safety matters. "You sure about this guide tomorrow?"

"Yes. He's been working here at Verbier for a decade; a Swiss who coaches the under-twenty national team. His offerings are more expensive than average to deter the intermediate skiers, and his pre-trip questionnaire is clear about the fact that if he doesn't think you're up to it, he'll turn you around and send you back to the village. Only five in the group tomorrow, and we're assembling early so that we will be the first to get to the top of Mont Fort."

"How long is the trip?"

"I should be down to Siviez by three thirty, back at the chalet by four or shortly after; that's the advantage of starting early."

Good. That makes me relax a bit. "This time, keep in touch."

"The phone reception won't be as good on the backside, too much mountain in the way."

I shrug. "Do the best you can."

"What are you going to do? Is Mycroft going to bore you again?"

"He's good enough company, but tomorrow I want to try some cross-country skiing. I've never done that before. There's a run based around Nandaz; the chalet chauffeur service is taking me there and back again. It's not that far from Siviez; what about me picking you up there? Do you know where your route ends?"

Sherlock nods. "That could work. The guide's transport is meeting us at the Siviez car park. In fact, why not get the chauffeur to take you to the Le Tètine café? You can sit and wait, have a cup of tea. There's a view of the Lac de Cleuson dam, and I'll be coming down through the trees to the left side. Give me a call when you arrive, and I'll tell you how long it might take me to reach you."

He pays, and we leave.

There are crowds in the streets as we make our way back, but it is snowing, and the flakes fall on his hair. I slow my pace to savour the moment; I am really a romantic at heart. It doesn't snow enough for me in London; too many mild, wet and dreary grey winters. Although I am not a great skier, I do love being in the mountains when the scenery is all draped in white like this. There's also the fact that Sherlock seems to relate to such environments in a way that I love. Perhaps it is the anonymity of being in places where there are no social expectations that he finds liberating.

When I step off the kerb to cross the street, I slip a bit on the road where passing cars have compacted the snow. Uncharacteristically, he takes my left arm in his right, and we walk back like that, arm-in-arm. When we reach the entrance to the chalet, he leans down under cover of darkness to kiss me.

"I love you."

The baritone is like caramel and the sentiment behind it is even sweeter to hear. When Sherlock says things like this, he always really means them.

Every few steps up the stairs, we stop and kiss again; I take advantage of them to even up our heights and take his face into my hands to give him a proper seeing to; tongues and warmth, the aromas of his shampoo and the melting snow on his coat are making my head swim.

"Early night?" I suggest, hoping that we can dodge his brother and get back to the agenda I had in mind this afternoon.

He nods.

From the penthouse living room above us, a stentorian voice calls out, "You two can stop canoodling on the stairs. I have witnessed your public displays of affection without grimacing in the past, so you needn't hide."

Giggling, I let Sherlock go up the last few steps, as he announces, "Rein in your jealousy, brother, lest it ruins your reputation of being above such pedestrian things."

We shed our coats, and Mycroft looks over from the sofa, raising a balloon glass of brandy. "You missed a superb meal; Pierre did a steak Diane that was delicious. Join me for a nightcap?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "We had some beer. More alcohol might interfere with what John has in mind for the rest of our evening."

Mycroft smirks. "Oh dear; shall I have to beat a hasty retreat to the media room again? The headphones do a great deal to spare everyone's blushes."

I think the brothers have exchanged enough jovial barbs for tonight. "Good night, Mycroft. Sweet dreams." I take Sherlock's hand in mine and lead him into our bedroom.

What follows is a massage of various sore muscles on both bodies, and then things take a more heated turn as Sherlock, determined and mischievous, wraps his hand around my cock. If we soon announce our satisfaction with each other's company in a volume that might reach the media room, I am not concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Mycroft's surgery is covered in [YGTMH: Blood Thicker Than Water"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502840).  
> ** Due to a workplace accident, Sherlock ended up in a halo vest for a cervical vertebra fracture in [YGTMH: Scar Tissue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13534830). It was a trying experience for both, especially since John was still recovering mentally and physically from what happened in Afghanistan in [YGTMH: Take heart ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760575).
> 
> Having spent a few months in the motherland of the sublime work of culinary art that is sushi at its best, the JBall could well rival Sherlock when it comes to sushi quality snootiness. She will, however, gladly indulge in some gyoza as a starter.


	4. Backside and Beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, it was time for the JBall to jump in with both feet to participate in the writing and not just the betaing.

The guide meets me and the rest of the group at the Medran 2 station at 8 o'clock, a full hour before the cable cars will start operating and the groomed pistes open. At this time of the year, only the dimmest glow of sunrise is visible in the horizon, and a few people are loitering in the area apart from those of us whose plans for today involve going over the backside of Mont Fort.

"I'm Markus Branger," the guide starts. He's wearing a moss green skiing jacket with an embroidered company logo with black trousers and, as he removes his thick, black, woollen hat, a head of messy, greyish brown hair is revealed. I assume he'll replace the hat with a balaclava later to fit under his helmet. "I have been the owner of the FreedomSki Verbier office since 2004. My father was a mountain guide, and I grew up in the Val d’Hérens. I live now for many years in Verbier. I graduated from École hôtelière de Lausanne in 1993 and then began my mountain guide training. I'm also a Swiss Snow Sports graduate, and six years of ski patrol here at Verbier. For my sins, I coach the local younger competitors on the Swiss slalom team."

I estimate Branger is in his early forties, and he speaks with enough gravitas to hold the attention of the assembled skiers. I would have preferred to hire his services alone for the day, but he is in demand and had no free solo slots, so I allowed him to talk me into a group. " _It's a small group, only experienced, expert skiers. If you try for someone else to guide you alone, you won't start out early morning, and will end up skiing with other people doing the run in their bigger groups_ ," he explained to me on the phone, and I relented. Crowds, even on the off piste routes, are an unfortunate consequence of trying to ski during the Christmas-to-New-Year break.

The fluorescent lights in the station foyer are harsh where we have gathered before the closed iron gates. It's warm here; I open the zipper of my jacket and remove my thin merino wool hat, shoving it into the helmet dangling from the crook of my elbow.

A quick round of introductions reveals the others in Branger's group, and the first to speak up are a pair of male friends and co-workers. Gabriel Černý and Pavel Novotný work as ski patrolmen at the resort of Janské Làzne in the Krkonoše mountains of the Czech Republic. They have the look and gear of accomplished off piste skiers. Next, there is an American by the name Steve Forrest. He's significantly younger than me, in his early twenties, and looking a little ill at ease. His equipment looks so new that it could be a Christmas present. He brags that he's done, quote, " _all the itinerary routes here and wants some real action_ ". The solitary French skier — a reticent-to-talk Parisian lawyer by the name of Pierre Arnaud — is giving the boy a rather jaundiced eye. Arnaud is in his fifties, and his kit is well-worn; the wax on his skis doesn't hide the scuffs in the paintwork. In the casual superiority that only a Parisian can muster, he explains that he has been skiing since before most of us were born.

When it's my turn, I keep it short: "Holmes, surgeon from England. I did off piste at Pischa and Rinerhorn last year at Davos."

The guide nods, acknowledging my credentials, before giving us a stern look. "This trip is rated for expert skiers only, not intermediates. There was good snow last night, so we will have about twenty to thirty centimetres of fresh powder. If you are not experienced on powder, you need to re-think this trip. Mont Fort Backside is not for anyone with doubts. Cancel now, and it will not cost you a centime — full refund. This is better than having an injury or being miserable and slowing the rest of us down. Has anyone here not skied on powder off-piste in Switzerland?"

The American boy raises a hand very slowly, reluctantly. Defensively, he says, "I ski in powder at Mission Ridge all the time and have no problems."

Branger shakes his head. "That's in the American Pacific Northwest, yes?" The nod he gets does not change the guide's expression. "Different powder. Your coastal weather conditions mean it's wetter, slower, gets more packed; you will need extra care here. And it is a lot steeper here in the Alps. The backside has some very challenging descents — they may be considered _incontournable_ Verbier routes, but not because they are accessible to everyone." He raises his gaze to the rest of us. "No one should underestimate this. Backcountry is wild, not an _i_ _tinéraire_. Yes, we will be encountering great skiing conditions on couloirs, glaciers, moraines but there is a price to pay at the other end; a long, involved exit around the Lac de Cleuson, where you will have a lot of poling, sidestepping. There is some generally flat terrain, but several very steep verticals. So, fitness and stamina count."

If this is meant to deter me, it fails. This is what I have come for, why I like to ski off-piste. Nothing I have read about this run puts it above my skill level.

"Now, we do equipment check."

I'm the last one the guide examines. An efficient scrutiny of my skis, boots, helmet, goggles, gloves and poles is followed by a closer look at my skis and the wax I have used. A curt nod and then Branger asks me to check my transponder, watching how familiar I am with its functions. My avalanche backpack is opened and checked, a question asked about the compressed air canister's date, and then he leaves me alone with a curt nod, which is a relief.

Next, Branger takes a moment to introduce the route, describing it as one of the all-time best off piste runs in Switzerland. "It's eight and a half kilometres long, and some of the descents are at fifty degrees. Not for the faint-hearted. We exit from the station at the top of Mont Fort, down the stairs and turn to the left, move carefully down the narrow path along the ridge and wait there until we are all together. Most skiers will be heading for the Mont Fort to Tortin piste; we will move past that to climb to the peak. It is from the narrow ridge on the other side of the peak that we make the final decision about the line of descent."

He says 'we', but I suspect it will be Branger's call. While we wait, he gets us to swap phone numbers so that if there is a signal, we can stay in touch if we get separated.

Finally, the gates are pulled back, and we get on the first gondola car of the day. While we ascend to Les Ruinettes, Branger tells us that we should make our way as quickly as possible to the Chaux Express lift. "Stay together; move fast. From Le Chaux, take the 3-Jumbo to Col des Gentianes, and from there, the 2 Mont Fort. If we get separated, get there and turn left from the station, down to the cut path that leads to the start of the black run. Wait there; we will be going past that and along the ridge."

I had looked over the ropes on that very ridge yesterday; the view was magnificent. My route research prior to booking Branger told me that our start would be very, very steep — a sixty-degree angle of descent for the first couloir. It's not called "The Fall Wall" for nothing. It will be quite an experience, and whatever strategy with my technique I might have been thinking, it may have to change today to accommodate the new, deeper powder conditions.

By the time the iron gates are finally pulled back, there is a sizeable crowd of skiers behind us in the queue, mostly speaking French. The general tone is excited; fresh powder in this resort is especially appreciated by the French for some reason; perhaps they hate the precision grooming of so many of their own resorts.

The ascent to Mont Fort is tedious; shifting between four different lift routes to get to the top takes longer than I'd like. Without John, to whom I could divert my attention, I occupy myself with the view. By the time we've reached the second lift, the sun has come up to adorn a cloudless sky. It is a gloriously beautiful morning, and the weather is likely to remain good at least until the afternoon. I can feel the anticipation tingling in my fingertips, the adrenaline coursing in my veins, tension pulling my abdominal muscles taut. _Into battle_.

Inevitably, the crowds do manage to separate our small group, but we re-assemble — as instructed — just to the left of the stairs from the station. The twenty meters it takes to walk the barely a metre-wide path to the peak is exciting, but nothing really prepares me for the nerve-racking sight of the ridge down the other side. It's little more than a narrow sliver of vertical space, covered with pristine powder, and it's hard to trust my steps as I start making my way to the end of it, equipment clutched tightly in my arms. A misplaced boot could lead to a fall if the powder underfoot is unstable rather than lying on true ground.

Branger leads the way to a wider spot, turning to face us as we move along to join him. The two Czechs make it there comfortably and start putting their skis on. I can hear the Parisian is about two meters behind me when the American in front suddenly stops. He bows his head, poles grasped firmly and then thrust into the footprints made by the three who have already passed this way. Even from where I am standing, I can hear the ragged breaths, interspersed with the occasional grunt. Is the idiot experiencing vertigo or having a panic attack? Both could be fatal if he faints. 

I move closer behind him. "Sit down, _now."_

For a moment, he is frozen, unable to move. "I can't move," he whispers. "I'll fall."

Branger catches my eye, and says calmly, "Steve, sit down to catch your breath; when you feel able, then you can move. You need to come here before you can turn around. There are people behind you who will help you keep your balance."

I glance around and realise that Branger's effectively referring to me since I'm just behind Steve _._ Reluctantly, I tell him that I am going to put a hand on his hip, making it clear that I am close enough that I can help. Even through my gloves, I can feel his legs are trembling. "It's okay," I offer. Isn't that what one's supposed to do? "It's safe; just squat down where you are and lower your head." I move down with him as he crouches, making my presence felt.

It's strange how quiet things go for the next minute; nobody says a word. All I can hear are excited shouts of skiers in the distance who are starting down the black run. The rumble of the cable car station is a but a low background hum.

"What's wrong with me? I'm a fucking coward." Steve sounds hoarse.

"No, you're not. This is an acute stress reaction to unfamiliar stimuli. The adrenal medulla in your brain has set off a hormonal cascade that results in the secretion of catecholamines. Freezing is what happens when the fight or flight reflex cannot be carried out. You just have to breathe slowly, keep your head down and wait for it to pass. It will. Those hormones have only brief effects unless one continues secreting more of them."

Steve looks as though he's ready to continue producing enough to fill an entire box of Epipens instead of calming down. Here on the ridge, there is precious little space and no margin for error; I try again. "Control your breathing. Start by counting to four before breathing out, and take a count of four to breathe in." He's venting his carbon dioxide too fast by hyperventilating; hypocapnia causes a worsening sense of panic and fear and might lead to fainting.

I can both hear and see that the boy is trying to follow the instructions; the air is cold enough up here to vaporise his breaths, which are slowing. The wind is biting my cheeks where the balaclava isn't covering them.

A few minutes pass, then Steve announces, "Okay, I can get up now."

He rises slowly, using his poles to probe where the powder is hiding firm earth and where the wind has banked it up against the side of the ridge. Eleven tentative steps forward, and he reaches Branger and the Czechs. When I join them, the Frenchman is muttering disapprovingly under his breath. Branger glares at him and continues talking very quietly to Forrest. We wait, knowing that he's going to have to walk the American back across the ridge to the peak and then to the lift station. It's obvious his unease has disqualified him from this descent.

Branger takes the rope that he's got wrapped around his backpack and ties the two of them together before setting off, and it takes almost ten minutes before he reunites with us. We haven't said a word to each other since he left; the boy's panic at the sight of the mountainside dropping down before our feet has sobered us all.

"Ready?" Branger asks, planting his poles in the snow.

We busy ourselves getting our skis on and fiddling with our equipment. The nerves I experienced when worrying about the boy have dissipated; now, I am just eager to get underway. Overhead, a helicopter is coming up from Verbier, headed somewhere to the east of us; it's the second one I've seen this morning. Their ability to get skiers up and over the mountains and quickly into the backcountry is something I envy; no crowded lifts or waiting for the pistes to be patrolled and then opened. The advantages of being off piste are somewhat dissipated if you have to move with the herd to reach it. Heli-skiing is something I've yet to try; my main deterrent is the thought of having to weather John's reaction to such a plan.

"Right, gentlemen. Thank you for your patience. Now, down to business. First of all, a safety talk. You see this big backpack I am wearing?" Branger hooks a thumb over his shoulder at what is at least twice the size of any of the avalanche packs we are wearing. "This has two thirty-meter ropes, two harnesses and crevasse rescue equipment. I really don't want to have to use any of these, so you will listen to what I have to say about keeping to lines. Last year an American skier — not on my trip — decided to go off in a different direction without discussing it with the guide. His group found his body at the bottom of a forty-meter cliff. He'd skied right off it. Sometimes, you see where a turn is only after you have gone right past it unless you've been told when to do it."

"We are going to take the descent through this chute as the powder allows. Think of it as a controlled slide, because there is no way to ski this angle, nor can you make a lot of turns. Edges don't work on this. The power you would need to take you out of the powder to execute a turn and then back down on it only accentuates the slide of the powder. Keep your skis horizontal to the fall line for the first fifty feet or so. We go one at a time; the powder won't take more than one of us. The first one through is going to compact the snow a bit for the rest of us. Gabriel or Pavel—which of you is most confident in these conditions?"

The two Czechs exchange glances; Pavel steps forward to the edge, turns his skis and goes over the edge, his left side turned into the mountain. As his skis disappear beneath the surface of the snow, he keeps his body angled so that his slide down through the powder is balanced against the pull of gravity. He makes it look effortless; his outstanding technique surpasses mine.

Arnaud is next; the Frenchman is slower, more methodical, but his technique is similar. They are joined by the athletic, agile Gabriel about 100 meters down and to the left, off the main line of fall.

Branger is beside me, watching their progress. "Your turn."

Taking a deep breath, I let my skis drop over the side and then I am into the power, getting an instant flow. It's a surprise — no matter how many times I ski powder, the sensation is always startling and remarkable. Instead of the hiss and crunch of compacted snow, I am floating. It feels oddly safe even though my controlled, sliding fall down involves nothing that could be called skiing. There is a terrible temptation to let my skis drift from the horizontal to the fall line, to keep going past where the others have stopped. Resisting my instincts, I pull up and wait.

Unsurprisingly, Branger is down very quickly. He draws our attention to the two rocky fins jutting through the snow. "Once you are through those, the next two hundred meters are easier. At the bottom, you reach the Glacier du Petit Mont Fort; stop on its very right side. I am going to be third in line, so I can keep an eye on those of you in front and those behind. Holmes, you go first."

I don't need a second invitation. Turning my skis down, I launch into pristine snow and am instantly reminded of why this is so remarkable. As much as I enjoy skiing anywhere, being on powder is even better.

My skis are not visible, nor are my boots. Instead of hard snow, the powder is almost springy, compacting as I go down. It moves with me; it's as if a cloud is carrying me down the mountain. The turns are not the hard edges of yesterday's work on the pistes and over the moguls. Instead, it's a lazy series of loose, sinuous arcs, driven by only the slightest change in the angle of my legs. Powder is counter-intuitive; it asks different things from a skier than maintained runs. Instead of pushing my legs down in the hollows of yesterday's mogul field, I have to lift my knees to get the ski tips out of the powder. One might be tempted to sit back on one's heels, but that's the worst thing to do in this environment. My ankles are flexed, shins in contact with the front of my boots, and my skis are aligned with the fall line. No zigzagging; this is not a case of cutting across the face of the mountain. Instead, I am riding the shifting snow surface down: as if I was surfing a wave, I keep my body weight poised over my feet or even a little ahead. Without compacted snow and ice, my speed is naturally slower, so I can go up a gear and tease the limits of my skills without fear.

I'm now halfway down the section and feel more confident about anticipating what negotiating it requires. I bring my skis into a narrower stance, balancing the weight between inner and outer skis. This is a three-dimensional problem I am solving rather than the usual two. I have to make choices about how deep I want to be in the powder: the deeper, the slower, for sure, but there is a risk of getting bogged down and stalling. Too fast, on the other hand, runs the risk of misjudging a placement. Get it wrong, and I could disappear into a cloud of powder on a turn that blinds me to an obstacle — or I might fall. On a slope this steep, that might well lead to severe injury. Getting it right, as I am now, creates a sense of invincibility, of freedom itself that's unbelievable. It's quieter here, too, as compared to groomed pistes; the silence is so profound that I can hear my own heartbeat, elevated from the adrenaline rush. At last, I am _alone_ — liberated from the claustrophobic crowds. Time slows down, and the sensory inputs are all somehow _aligned_ ; my skis point the way, body and mind in synchronicity for once. With not a trace of another skier in front of me, I come down the backside of Mont Fort in ecstasy.

At the bottom, I have to fight the desire to continue. God, I wish John learned to ski well enough that I could show him all this. Who could resist such an experience? It's an addiction; I've just had the best fix that is legal, and I want _more._

I've never been able to find the words to explain my love of skiing adequately to my husband; he thinks I'm mad. Only once did he agree to try powder instead of maintained pistes; we hired a guide who took us to some of the easiest _itinéraires_ on our Courmayeur trip. It turns out powder scares the hell out of John because he can't see his boots or skis, and so many of the things that have been taught to him as a beginner needed to be ignored suddenly. " _You can keep that nonsense_ ," he told me that afternoon, visibly eager to wrench the skis off his boots when we had finished our descent back to the village and said farewell to our guide. " _How's that even skiing, hmm? More like falling down a bloody mountain hoping you don't crack your head open_ ," he grumbled. It took a large mug of whisky-spiked hot chocolate before his mood improved. He seemed somehow angry at me — as though it was my fault the experience hadn't appealed to him. John can be a bit irrationally bristly at times.

As my breathing calms, caution kicks in, and I look back up the steep incline, watching the four others making their own way down. I am not surprised that each decides to find their own tracks down. Who would want to play in someone else's trail when we have the whole of the pristine backside of the mountain to explore?

_____________

The rest of the morning provides even more excellent skiing. Branger has seen enough of our skills and the conditions to decide we can tackle the so-called Phantom Couloir, which we reach by a steady traverse along the right side of the Petit Mont Fort bowl. The sunlit glacier below us looks inviting enough, but where we are, the angle is steeper and still in the shade, retaining deeper powder and yielding more exhilarating challenges.

When we arrive at a slight dip in the ridge, Branger calls us together for a briefing. As he hands around an aluminium water bottle, he tells us to take a drink while he talks. It's important to keep hydrated, but I pass when Gabriel offers it to me. Rather than share, I find my own plastic bottle in a pouch on the outside of my backpack. My medical training makes me wary of sharing saliva; thankfully, the others make no comment.

Branger explains: "The Phantom Couloir is excellent but steep and very exposed — a three-hundred-meter drop at a forty-nine-degree angle. A definite no-fall zone. There is a dangerous cliff at the start, and a point about halfway down where you have to take a hard left or you will go straight over another cliff edge. The danger is hard to spot unless you know it's there. This time, I am going to go first, to show you the proper line. Stick to it like glue, and you will have no problem."

I am the last in the group to go down, leaving me plenty of time to take in the view from the top of the section. In the sunlit bowl of the glacier below us, a number of skiers have come down different routes from Mont Fort than we have taken; their spray of powder and the whoops of delight rise up to me. To the left of us, on a lower line, I can see skiers exiting the bowl down another couloir.

When it is my turn, I come over the ridge blinking into the bright sunlight, enough to bother me even through the goggles. Looking down, I can now see the clear evidence down the chimney of where the others have been. The first hard left turn comes much sooner than I had thought it would; without the guide's warning, I can see how someone could easily be lured into thinking the centre line was simply a brief rise to be topped before continuing on soft snow. The route to follow may be clear, but what I suddenly realise is how the previous skiers have exposed the character of the snow; I must be on my best game here to avoid a fall. The crosswind blowing from the east is fierce here, driven down from the Grand Désert glacier rising to our left. The snow beneath my skis will have powder in a few places, but there are patches of wind-compacted snow which cracks in sheets rather than blowing up in a cloud. Even that variation alone will make this descent more difficult than the first one. And that's not all: just by looking down, I can see that there are even barer patches where the powder has blown away entirely, and the passage of the other four skiers has cut into what's left, leaving a hard, icy snow surface which is reflecting the sun's glare.

This will be tricky. Concentrating fiercely, I start down, taking the left turn. When I make my first consecutive turn to the right, I can see what Branger had meant — the cliff is shockingly abrupt, and the rocks all the way down would be lethal for someone lured to take that route. I execute a narrow turn, putting the sight behind me. As I progress down, it gets progressively harder to make the necessary split-second decisions on how much edge to apply, how sharp my turns should be. As long as there's powder, I can keep the skis heading downwards, making the turns slower, planting my poles in a steady rhythm. But as soon as I hit compacted snow, the skis bite more, and I have to constantly adjust my balance to accommodate — or risk doing a faceplant. At any moment, my skis might also hit an icy surface and threaten to run away from me. I lean hard and turn more sharply, wishing my pole-planting could know in advance of which surface I am going to be on at what point.

It's a hair-raising ride at the very edge of my abilities. Halfway down, I sneak a glance to see the others at the bottom looking up at me, but then my left pole skitters across an icy patch and throws me off-balance. A spike of adrenaline hits as I plant my right pole hard into compacted snow and lift my knees to make a sharp turn to recapture my balance. Now, I am off the ski line of the others and know I have to snap back around in a hurry if I am going to make the next left turn away from a very direct and dangerous route down. Thankfully, only one rather savage turn is needed to put me back on track, passing with a nice margin the second cliff edge Branger had warned us about.

I regain my rhythm, grateful for having had the guide's advice. Going off piste here without having years of experience of reading the snow conditions in the Alps would be a complete lottery with survival.

When I re-join the group at the bottom, my legs are shaking a bit, but the others are visibly restless, eager to get going again. There are more skiers, now, ahead of us — the various routes down from Mont Fort tend to converge here on the Grand Plans descent. At least the gentler, broader slope below us means there is plenty of room to spread out as we make our way downwards to the little Lac du Grand Désert.

After the extreme challenges of the Phantom couloir, all of us seem happy to take it easier. In the sun, now, I make long, lazy arcs, enjoying the feel of powder again. The looseness of it makes me feel as if I am flying six inches off the ground. As the adrenaline from the couloir eases, I start to get more adventurous. Instead of avoiding the bumps and small hills, I'm tempted into going up and over, tucking my knees up to shake free the powder, knowing that I will land on what can only be described as a plush trampoline. There is an exquisite bounce and give that adds even more to the experience.

For some reason, my mind turns to the sensation of John pushing me onto the bed last night. First, the soft, thick, down-filled duvet cushioned my fall, and then the spring of the mattress made it easy to reach up to him and pull him into an embrace. Forever committed to memory and filed away there to be relived, it was a wonderful sensory experience and has made me consider a new mattress purchase when we get back home. After some rather spirited kissing, he pushed me onto my side, and with a relieved and anticipatory groan, trailed the tip of his cock briefly and playfully along the cleft of my buttocks. Then, he pressed his chest against my back and reached for mine, the hardness of which mirrored his fully bloomed arousal. He's very conscientious in making sure I'm not too far from release when he comes; for John, trying to avoid getting lost in his own head and just chasing his own pleasure while we're making love seems to be rule number one. I'm the one who gets more easily distracted, which I cannot always help if he's enticed me to the bedroom when I've been in the middle of doing something else that I find interesting. It must be why he lavishes me with so much careful attention during sex — he needs and wants the emotional connection instead of just giving in to some animalistic impulse. I have often wondered if this is singular to being in a relationship with me as opposed to his prior conquests; it doesn't seem to fit with how I imagine casual sex to function. In the early days of our relationship, I needed that connection, too, lest I became self-conscious and worried about my lacking skills and experience. Now, years later, I find myself much more confident and thus prone to my brain drifting off on tangents.

I must be smiling — no, I must be _grinning_ , because my teeth feel very cold when I quickly moisten them with my tongue.

I remind myself to focus; I must concentrate on one sensation at a time. I need to pay attention to my legwork, which is all about flexing and extending my usual piste technique. Turns are languid, more a gentle pull than a muscular push; the goal is to let the snow create the rebound. Powder skiing is all about control through resistance. I'm not battling the conditions; it is more a case of surrendering my technique to the demands of the snow. I keep my legs straight, well inside the width of my shoulders, keeping to the fall of the slope. As my speed builds up, I keep pressuring the tips of my skis to get more rebound out of the powder. When I feel that happening, I can slow the planting of my poles, using just my wrists rather than my arms.

When the angle of the slope lessens a bit, I start putting even more weight on the front of my skis, getting them to dive deeper into the powder, compacting it like a bow so that when I pop the tip out again, it's like I've made my own mogul to push back at me. Soon there is rise and fall, a bounce and drop as well as the sway of the turns. It's better than ballroom dancing. That's another thing I enjoy that John does not appreciate to the same degree.

Eventually, we skirt along the left side of the little lake area. There, our track connects with the main traffic coming down from Mont Fort. The steep incline ahead of us at the western edge of the frozen pond is where, in the summertime, the glacier water cascades down into the Lac du Cleuson, formed by the dam at the end of the water.

When our route narrows into a bottleneck, Branger motions us to the side. "We take a breather. Eat something. I tell you here what to expect for the rest of the trip."

I plant my poles and rummage in my pack for an energy bar. Overhead, a rescue helicopter is chewing its way through the air, rising towards Le Mètallier. At 3123 meters, it is the highest peak after Mont Fort in this area. This is the fourth rescue services chopper that has passed overhead this morning towards off piste areas. The number seems excessive, considering the avalanche warning being two today on a scale of one to five. I don't check the forecasts; John does. Fuel for his nagging.

"Okay, when we get to the bottom of this initial descent, we cross the valley, heading for the track to the right side of the lake. You will see the little chapel on the hill above. There used to be a village up there, but it was destroyed by the rock slides and avalanches that happen here. The ski track is close to the lakeside, only about thirty-five meters above the ice. Once you are on the track, you will most certainly have to pole in many places until we reach the dam. This can take anywhere between five and fifteen minutes, depending on how tired you are and how thick the powder is."

"Now, let me tell you why this simple little track is the most dangerous part of today's journey." His voice takes on a more sombre tone. "The sun today has warmed things up; the steep wall of the Le Perron mountainside above the track is known for avalanches. The rating today for the rest of the four valleys is moderate, but here I think in this spot is always a three or worse. So, keep alert."

I am not surprised that this is a risky spot: we will be traversing the area near the bottom of a long, steep slope just above the surface of the frozen lake behind the dam wall. The sun will have warmed the upper slab of snow, but not penetrated the deeper part of the valley where we have to track.

Branger has more advice, and he looks sombre delivering it. "Don't travel too close to each other. We will regroup at the point by the barrage; the track down through the trees to the junction with the Tortin piste is straightforward, and we take it to get down to Siviez." He looks at his watch. "Okay, let's go."

Just as the others start off, I feel the vibration of my phone in my jacket chest pocket. We must be within the range of a mast. Given the dam below us, that makes sense.

I fumble my gloves off and unlock it, seeing a text message from John:

**14:38: Progress report? Are we still on for ETA 15.30?**

Quickly, I type out a reply:

**14.39: Yes. On my way down now to Cleuson. SH**

Poking at the send icon, I don't wait to see that it's gone before I shove the phone back into my pocket, slip my gloves back on and race to catch up with the rest of the group.

_____________

  
Thirty-three minutes later, I am puffing my way along the track. The powder here has been compacted by previous skiers; it's a good surface, even though it is so flat that I have to pole vigorously and use every bit of slope to gain some precious speed. Wherever I can, I glide, keeping my skis flat, crouched down with my chest over my thighs, poles tucked up under my arms.

I'm hot and a little bothered, but the end is in sight. Ahead, around a rocky promontory that forces the track to narrow, I can clearly see the concrete dam. The track is about thirty meters above the surface of the snow over the icy lake. On my right side, the slope rises steeply. A few pine trees poke through the snow, but most of the terrain is bare rock.

I'm no longer the last in line; Pavel had dropped behind me when his GoPro camera got covered in snow, and he stopped to clear it. Gabriel is eighty meters or so in front of me; his bright blue jacket makes it easy to keep him in view. Just as he comes to the point under the rocky promontory, he stops and turns to look at his friend and me. 

He jabs a ski pole at something behind me, shouting: " _Look! Pavel!!!_ "

I turn my head briefly in my glide and see that the Czech behind me has started skiing like a madman, sprinting towards me.

Then, I see why.

A slab of snow is descending down the face of the mountain above us. The fracture lines are growing, extending in my direction. My ears pick up an ominous rumble which sounds like a thundercloud on the horizon.

_Avalanche._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an avalanche looks like: this one happened at [Verbier in 2006](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qVwIuznFW0) and here's [ another example](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuSLasFBgRg).
> 
> Here's some good [footage illustrating the behaviour of powder and the steepness of the route](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijqu60pgejk), [another video of skiing the Mont Fort Backside](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqCH9hClqRo), and some fun [footage from along the whole route](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIO89u9C2eY).


	5. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: claustrophobia and snow burial.

It all happens so quickly that I am not able to think, only to act on instinct. I stand up in my glide, plant my left pole and go off the track down the slope, using a straight line to milk every bit of speed out of the twenty-five-meter drop. Where the bank meets the snow lying on top of the ice, I turn diagonally, hoping that I can use my acquired speed to get to the far edge of the fall of snow.

Behind and above me, I hear the first part of the snow slab hit the rocks above the track. In an instant, there is an explosion of powder everywhere, making it hard to see; ice debris is hitting my backpack and pinging off my helmet. Then, more snow appears to my left and I change my angle away from it, hoping that, once the mass of snow collides with the flat surface of the lake, it will mean that the avalanche will stop sliding and just pile up.

It's too optimistic. There is a whump of sound behind me and another bigger blast of powder envelops me. _Whiteout_. I'm still moving forward but can't see a thing. Behind me, I can feel a rising tide of snow that is moving like a fluid, amassing behind me, pushing me further along the surface of the lake. In seconds, the snow tsunami laps over my skis, over my boots, over my knees, and suddenly it feels as though something alive has seized my legs in its iron grip. I lose my balance but am kept upright by the mass of snow that keeps me hurtling forward across the surface of the lake without any effort on my part. All I can see is white as cloudy walls of snow rise around me. The noise is deafening; somewhere in it, there seems to be a faint, higher-pitched component a bit like ringing but I can hardly afford to waste precious time and energy analysing it further. My waist is sucked into the morass and then chunks of more solid snow start crashing down on my back, arms and helmet.

There is a bang and the hiss of compressed gas right next to my ears—the avalanche air bag sensor has gone off and inflates around the back of my neck and head, designed to keep me above the snow. For a moment, it seems to act as a brake on the snow's downward drag on my body. The powder clears from my goggles and I see daylight for a moment, giving me hope that this is the worst it's going to get.

 _Wrong._ Whatever happened to the snow that first hit the lake must have provided a surface for a fresh surge, and this one is moving faster, harder, and suddenly there are more compacted pieces hitting my back, surrounding my chest. My poles are ripped out my hands, and then all I can see through my goggles is _blue._ Instinctively, I thrash through the snow to bring my arms and elbows up to a brace position, my hands to my face, cupping an area around my mouth and nose to create an air pocket. A heavy weight of snow is pressing down on my helmet, into my goggles, squeezing its icy fingers into the tiny gap between my neck and the top of my jacket. The neck-warmer is instantly sodden as I become encased by the snow.

To be honest, I had never spared much thought to what it would feel like to be buried by an avalanche. As it turns out, whatever my imagination might have conjured up, the reality is far worse. The sensory storm is overwhelming. Terrified at the total loss of control over anything, my thought processes fracture. Panic takes over and I start thrashing my upper body backwards and forward in the snow that has covered me in the hope of creating some wiggle room in the tight pocket around me.

 _John._ All I can think about is the thought of him waiting at Siviez while I die in this icy tomb.

Through the haze of desperation over the thought of never seeing him again, the realisation slowly breaks through that I am a trapped rag doll, being shoved far across the lake. I try to concentrate, but with no reference points against which to measure forward movement, it's hard to judge whether I am slowing down. I try to be rational, but cannot amass enough data to be certain.

Suddenly, everything just… stops. After the roar, the silence is bizarre; all I can hear is my own frantic breathing, my lungs bellowing and chest trying to expand while constricted by the packed snow. I have no idea how long it takes, but eventually the panic subsides. I am still breathing; there seems to be enough oxygen that I am not going to die of immediate asphyxiation. Every exhaled breath contains sixteen percent oxygen that hasn't been used. If I can slow respiration, that will increase the time I have.

Fifteen minutes, that's probably the limit. When I did the avalanche training that's what they said. If you're buried alive, the most common cause of death is carbon dioxide poisoning and just running out of oxygen. If rescue is within five minutes, ninety percent will survive. By thirty to forty minutes, it's almost zero.

Tentatively, I try to move various bits of my body, doing a self-diagnosis. At first, I feel totally pinioned; a momentary sense of claustrophobic panic rises before I can squash it down. I tell myself to stop catastrophising. _It's like a weighted blanket,_ I lie to myself and almost believe it. Almost. At least my respiration rate slows, and I can resume my assessment. My skis might well still be attached, which is not good; they could be firmly anchoring me down. Trying to find out whether the bindings have held is not possible; I cannot move my legs with all this weight on top.

I try to thrash and manage to gain a bit of room to shift my upper body — and that's when a sudden, sharp, bright pain makes me groan.

The sound shocks me into stillness.

Once the worst stab of agony is gone, the left side of my rib cage begins to ache to the rhythm of my pulse and it begins to register that my ankles and legs are sore, too. The worst of the adrenaline must have dissipated since various bits of my body are now making themselves known. My knees are painful, but how badly any bit of me might be damaged is hard to tell, given that I am encased in a body-sized icepack. I'm shivering — shaking, even — but I suspect it has more to do with shock and pain than body temperature. The Kjus ski-ware is warm, but it won't stop hypothermia from setting in eventually. I concentrate on slowing my breathing again; I have to preserve oxygen. I know my transponder will help the others find me; it's a question of staying alive and keeping calm until they do. I fervently hope that there is only a shallow layer of snow above me.

Tensing my arm muscles, I realise there is more flex in the snow between my arms and chest. I push and pull, trying to clear a space so my forearms and hands can move. The snow directly in front of my mouth is melting from my breath; I bite into some, letting it melt on my tongue before swallowing — anything to create more breathing space. I keep moving my lips and mouth: I need to prevent the condensation of my exhaled breath from freezing into an impenetrable ice mask that could block my airway. It takes a while; how long is impossible to say because I've lost all sense of time. Eventually, the air pocket grows. I can now move my hands a bit, flex my fingers and squeeze them upwards to push snow further away from my nose and goggles. My fingers fumble through the gloves but I can just get to the airbag release. There is a hiss of deflation, but it means the space it had taken is now adding to my air pocket. The view is still disconcertingly _blue_ and my brain skitters off into odd questions about what it is about ice that is making me see it as blue rather than white.

Time feels as though it's standing still. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, sounding like the sea in a conch shell, whooshing in waves. I try to measure my pulse by that sound but fail; I keep losing count and having to start again. How long will it take for whoever is left standing to find me? Without any conscious effort, my brain freewheels on the what-ifs. What if the avalanche has swallowed all five of us? What if my transponder isn't working? What if the weight of the avalanche snow cracks the ice and I end up in the water? What if I run out of air? My mind conjures up an image of being trapped here, my body deteriorating ever so slowly for the rest of the winter and then, when the spring thaw occurs, my bones will sink to the bottom of the reservoir and no one will ever find me.

_I'm so sorry, John._

Suddenly, I'm startled when my phone begins to ring. Incredulous, I blink and nearly succumb to hysterical laughter since this is the last thing I would have expected. It takes me a moment to realise that this may be the way that Branger and the others are trying to find me and that this is entirely plausible and logical and sensible and all the other damned things I am currently not quite able to be. The sound of a phone travels in a way that the pings on the transponder don't; they might even be able to find me by that alone!

I worm my fingers through the snow in front of my chest pocket and wiggle the phone out. I can't see it, and nearly slips from my fumbling gloved fingers. I can't operate it blind, but thankfully there's an alternative. "Hey Siri, connect call; put me on speaker."

There is a moment of silence and then, "Holmes! Are you okay?!"

After taking a deep breath at how relieved I am to hear Branger's voice — muffled a bit by the phone being against my chest — I manage to parse together, "Yes, just stuck. Have you located me?"

"We're close. Are you injured?"

"Don't know. Don't think so." Or am I? It's hard to tell since I can't move much. The pain is nothing but a dull, distant throb, now. I shouldn't ignore the more intense, stabbing sensation I had earlier, but I'm not feeling it _now_ , so it doesn't matter, does it?

"Can you breathe okay?"

"Yes. The air bag has deflated, and I've made the air pocket larger."

"Good, good."

I can hear other voices — calm voices — in the background, which means Branger is not the only one looking for me. My breath hitches at the realisation that I am going to be rescued. I exhale with relief, close my eyes. _Oh Christ, John is going to be bloody furious._

It takes time for the others to find me. I try to imagine the scene above me, people using the long metal probes that come in an avalanche pack, triangulating my location on their transponders.

Finally, something stabs me on the shoulder, and I hear a shout on the phone, "Found him!"

Branger has kept talking to me on the phone but I can't seem to follow the conversation. The best I've managed is to throw in the occasional grunt or a yes to tell him I'm still here, still breathing. All the while, I keep thinking about John and how he will be waiting. The images conjured are so intense that they wrench tears from my eyes: John, sitting on a bench in the sunlit café with a cup of hot chocolate, looking up the valley for me to appear, to ski across from the rest of the group. What will he feel when I don't appear? When will he decide that something must have happened? Branger's company had made us fill out our emergency contacts onto the disclaimer sheets. I'd put John's number there. They haven't called him yet, have they? They shouldn't. They should only call him to tell him I'm fine. And I _am_ fine. Clearly.

There is sound above. For a moment, I am unsure whether it is coming from the phone or not. Then, the blue in front of my goggled eyes seems to turn whiter. _Yes_. Definitely, the sound is of plastic shovels on snow, and it is in stereo — on the phone and also for real around me. Things are getting brighter in my trap; they must be near. It's like clouds parting; a tiny shaft of bright sunlight comes in to make me blink, followed by a black shape that is pulling snow away. I focus — what I am seeing turns out to be a glove. The air pocket around my nose and mouth suddenly fills with snow, and I panic, shouting " _Stop!_ I can't breathe!"

The glove returns and clears a way to the surface, and I take a deep, deep breath of real air.

Now, I can hear voices which aren't coming through the phone. Branger's calm voice is telling me to relax; they've got me; it's only a matter of time. His use of the word makes me wonder what time it is. Am I late for John yet? Will he be worried? How worried?

"Hurry," I say. "Pull me out," I plead, trying to push my hands upwards, which brings on another stab of pain from my ribcage.

"No. Stay absolutely still. We have to do this properly, dig you out carefully. You might be injured; we cannot risk doing more damage. We've called in the helicopter rescue, should be here any minute."

I frown. There's no need for a helicopter. I need to ski down; I can do it, I'm sure of it. I need to ski down to John, show him I'm fine.

Hands are reaching in now, widening the hole, and Branger's face comes back into focus. "Holmes, I have to leave you now, but the others will get you out. We need to find Pavel."

I try to pick through what he's just told me. "Just pull me out, I can help," I plead.

Branger's expression is stern. "Pierre and a couple of other skiers who have stopped to help will get you the rest of the way out, make sure the emergency services find you."

I don't need any emergency services! I'm just cold, and I need to get out of the snow!

"Pavel… He was behind me…on the track," I manage, unsure whether I am really out of breath or if the smarting from my ribs just won't let me speak without pausing. I'm not buried any longer, hands are reaching down to clear snow from around my limbs and torso, and the jostling is making the pain worse.

I'm fine. I just need to get to John.

"Yeah; Gabriel is using the transponder where he thinks he might be, but he can't hear a phone."

"Go," I tell Branger.

________________  
  
  


"Sorry, Doctor Watson; we're a few minutes later than I thought we would be." Philippe, the chalet's chauffeur service driver looks apologetic as he parks the SUV.

He is a nice guy who takes the concept of customer care seriously. This morning, he had taken me to the cross-country runs at Nandez and sorted out the rental of proper equipment, even hooking me up with a private lesson instructor he knew.

"That's okay, Philippe. Plenty of time for me to get a hot chocolate before Doctor Holmes is due to arrive. Do you want to join me?"

The Swiss smiles but shakes his head. "I'll stay in the car, keep it warm." He pulls out his newspaper as I exit the car and head into Le Tatin café.

The small establishment is crowded but many seem to be locals. Skiers and snowboarders are everywhere in the area but this parking area has more snowmobiles than cars. Perhaps, unless you really know the roads like Philippe obviously does, it might be a challenge to navigate the small, windy and snowy road here, up north, from the centre of Verbier.

To my surprise, and relief, it has to be said, cross-country technique is completely different from what I've been doing the past two days. "Nordic skiing" as the instructor, Marie Rochat calls it, "is more like an exaggerated walk. You use arm and leg motion in opposition to drive yourself forward." She says there is another, more modern technique that looks a bit like speed skating on skis, but it would require different kind of equipment. I'm fine with tradition.

Marie turned out to be an attractive thirty-something Frenchwoman, and I suspect she gets hit on by a lot of the young tourist blokes. Is that the reason why she'd taken a rather serious and stern line as she explained the equipment and how it was used? Dark-haired, blue-eyed and taller than me, looking at her made me smile. Am I so in love with Sherlock that I judge the women I meet in terms of how much they remind me of him? He has so changed the way I look at people that I cannot imagine my life without him. He's the standard against which everyone is judged. It's a little unfair, of course: such a combination as his brains and his good looks must be a one-in-a hundred-million thing.

Marie taught me the basics on the flat area south of the town, after which Philippe drove us to the Pracondu Parking area above the town. From there, the view down into the flat Rhone valley was spectacular. Our two-hour skiing tour brought us to a rest area with a few tables. Philippe met us there and produced, from the boot, a small hamper — a picnic snack to enjoy before a few more hours of hard work. After we packed away the leftovers, Marie took me up the path onto the Prachavio track. There were other cross-country skiers using it, but we didn't see a single soul until we reached the top of the ridge.

" _Most skiers prefer to use the lift system_ ," Marie commented while I caught my breath. I had told her that I'd rather have the uphill cardio workout than get stuck on yet another chairlift or gondola. My appetite for them has waned a lot over the past two days. Without Sherlock to distract me, I find the claustrophobia of the _télécabine_ gondola lift to be a form of torture — even worse than the vertigo of the chairlifts.

The Prachavio cross-country route proved to be better than I had imagined. Gliding through the quiet pine forests in the bright sunshine was amazing, and I seemed to find a rhythm which had eluded me in downhill. There were a few steeper descents on the undulating track, but I enjoy even those, using Marie's example of the stance to take and how far to keep my skies apart.

The time had passed quickly, and when we rendezvoused with Philippe, I asked Marie if we could drop her off at home before heading up to Siviez. She gladly accepted, making it my fault that we are a little later than I had wanted to be arriving at the Café.

A quick glance around the crowded tables inside the café shows me that Sherlock has not beaten me to it. Well, he did say three-thirty, but I'd thought — given how much of a speed demon he is — that he might have arrived before me. I take my hot chocolate outside to the picnic tables that are facing north; there's a good view of the dam from here. The tables are all occupied, but one of them has only two people occupying it so I ask if they would mind me sitting there while I wait for someone. It's tentative because I don't speak French, but the bloke replies, in startlingly fluent and only slightly accented English, "Take a pew."

That makes me smile. "Does the saying work in French as well as it does in English?"

He laughs. "I go to uni at Exeter." He's young; probably only in his second year of university.

As I sip the chocolate, I keep stealing glances up the valley, which finally makes him laugh. "You waiting for your girlfriend? You've got _that_ look on your face."

"Husband." I don't even miss a beat anymore. The hesitation of our early relationship eventually turned to mild annoyance at people's expectations and finally a comfortable, confident routine of correcting their assumptions.

"Oh!" There is a momentary gap, and then a smile. "That's cool. Why aren't you skiing with him?"

Now, it’s my turn to laugh. "He's coming down from doing the Mont Fort backside while I am still barely able to stay upright on blue runs. Sometimes, you just have to let your better half do what they want. Keeps them happy."

The student chuckles. "Hear that, Simone?" he says to the girl sitting across from him with her back to the mountain. "That's what you should say when I want to take my snowcat back-country."

" _Non_." She's a pretty blonde, as young as he is, and she smacks his arm playfully. "Too dangerous. I want you to come back." Her accent is much stronger.

I glance down at my watch. It's three-fifteen. _Soon._

"What's that?" The young man is pointing up over her shoulder, and she turns around. I follow his line of sight up the valley to the dam, where a billowing cloud of white is rolling from the left across what must be the icy lake behind the concrete wall.

He says the word just as realisation hits. I'm on my feet before he even utters the last syllable.

"Avalanche!"

My phone is out of my pocket while the cloud of white is still billowing. I hit re-dial last number and wait.

There is no answer, just ringing and more ringing. "Come _on_ ; answer me, Sherlock." I breathe this as more of a prayer than a command, hoping to God I am wrong. After five rings, I can hear the switch.

" _You have reached the personal phone of Doctor Sherlock Holmes. Leave your name and number and I will get back to you when it is possible."_

I wait for the beep and say, "Call me; for God's sake, call me!"

The French youth comes up beside me, staring up the valley. "No answer? Do you want me to take you up there? On my snowcat?"

"Oh God… yes, please."

He says a quick "wait for me to call you" to Simone, and we run to the parking area. As he fires up the sleek snow mobile, I dash over to Philippe and throw open the door to the SUV. "Avalanche! I think Sherlock is up there. I'm going to see. Call Mister Holmes at the Chalet, and wait here. I'll call when I know more."

The snow cat snarls up behind me and the guy—whose name I don't even know—thrusts a helmet at me and shouts "Get on the back."

We roar off up and over a bank of snow heading for the cycle route that serves as a cat-track during the winter months.

Halfway up to the dam, I can hear over the snowcat's motor a thump of a helicopter's rotors. Once heard in Afghanistan, never forgotten. A rescue helicopter comes up behind us and heads straight overhead, clearing the dam and then disappearing from view.

Around a hair pin corner, we come upon a group of skiers coming down and I slap the driver's shoulder to get him to stop. I shout out to them, "What happened up there?"

One of them skis closer. "Big avalanche just behind us. We were at the barrage taking one last look at the lake, saw the whole damned thing. Ah-may-zing, just totally awesome."

The Americanism grates on my already raw nerves. "Not so if anyone was hurt. Did you see anyone caught in it?"

"Yeah, we could see they found one guy in the snow. Man, he was _waaay_ out on the lake. Lots of people now—other skiers who were behind the fall zone—trying to find someone else further back." He lifted his pole to point back at the dam. "The rescue copter just went over, should be there by now."

I grab my phone. One more time… _please, don't be dead; please Sherlock, just do this for me_.

This time, instead of a ring, there are three beeps and then his voicemail clicks on again. Wait… doesn't that meas the phone is engaged? Three for busy, five for not answering. This time he's using his phone? _If so, then he's alive?!_ I draw breath and then shove my phone back in my pocket and sit back down on the seat of the cat. "Let's go."

The skier shakes his head. "No way, man; they won't let you. Just around the bend the ski patrol has set up a barrier. They're up at the little glacier lake, too, re-routing all of the skiers away from the track by the lake, making them traverse on the other side, taking the _Les Lues_ route. At least until they can ensure the avalanche is stable. That could take hours."

"I have to get through. My husband is up there."

"Then he'll be re-routed. You'll have more luck if you head over that way." He points with his pole to the east. "Most skiers are going to come down that way; we just decided to use this route, because I cycled in the summer, so I know it's here."

The driver of the cat looks back at me. "Where to?"

"Up. If we get blocked, I may be able to talk someone into letting me walk the rest of the way."

We roar off, but sure enough, around another hairpin curve, where the cat track intersects a ski run, there is a ski patrol man in orange and a high viz jacket. He raises a hand to make us stop and speaks in rapid French.

The cat driver translates, "The route is closed; he says we have to go back to Siviez."

"Tell him to let me walk up; I can help. I'm a doctor."

The patrolman shakes his head and answers me in heavily accented English. " _Non, monsieur_ ; not possible. The OCVS has send the medical team in the helicopter to handle evacuation. No one must enter."

The Exeter student gives me a sympathetic look. "It's tough. I understand. Try the phone again. Maybe your man is one of the ones whose helping."

I step off the back of the snowmobile and walk to the side, fumbling my glove off to hit re-dial.

On the fourth ring, I hear the sound of a voice I have been praying for.

"John."

"Sherlock! Thank God. Are you okay? I saw the avalanche from below; someone with a snow cat brought me up to below the dam but they won't let me get any nearer."

"I'm… alright."

He sounds distracted, his voice is a bit muffled, husky. I can hear the sound of other voices in the background, but not well enough to make out what they are saying. "Are you helping, trying to find the skiers who got caught?"

There's no answer for a moment as the phone picks up odd sounds — maybe fabric? — like his phone is being taken out of a pocket or something. Someone says something in French, " _Garde le masque_!" Then he comes back on clearer, "The first one was found pretty fast, just been extracted and examined. They're still trying to find the other one. I want to stay and look, but the evac team want me to go in the helicopter now, to Sion… the hospital."

"Oh, is he okay?"

"He'll live. Bruises, cold, nothing too serious."

"Go on then, _Doctor_ Holmes, keep the patient company. I'll come to Sion and pick you up."

"Great."

He sounds tired. Well, if he's been digging someone out of the snow, I am not surprised. "Take care, love."

"Bye, John. See you soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What it feels like to be caught [inside an avalanche](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tbuk9AyEap8).  
> Here's [another one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YW5AcukbD3k). This is John's view from the [La Tetine café](https://goo.gl/maps/Z486kWSVZq3qKWvQ7). The process of rescue from the point of view of the rescuers can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7Gei33I2yE).
> 
> If you are like my beta, and wonder why Sherlock saw blue, the reason is that the light that comes from the sun is white light; a combination of all the wavelengths of visible light: red, orange, blue, green, and violet. When white light bounces off of snow it makes the snow look white. But once sunlight passes through snow, some wavelengths are absorbed, some aren't. Snow can look blue because all of the other wavelengths of light are absorbed, and blue is what is left for us to see. The colours depend upon how deep the snow is. Near the surface the colour will be white, then yellowish, but as the depth increases the colour changes from greenish-yellow to blue. Every grain of snow that the light passes through preferentially absorbs some of the red light; the more snow, the more the red light is absorbed, and the bluer the remaining light becomes. So, the deeper the snow the bluer the light will be, until all light is absorbed (at which point it will be dark). So, Sherlock is lucky he can see blue instead of black


	6. Rendezvous at Sion

As soon as I get back to the car at the café, I know I have to call Sherlock's brother; he's sure to have been as worried as I had been, assuming Philippe had reached him.

"John."

I have rarely heard Mycroft's tone this clipped and tense. I explain before he can ask: "He's okay. I reached him by phone."

The exhale of breath is enough to tell me how distressed Mycroft must have been by Philippe's call.

"What did he say?" Mycroft's usual air of collected nonchalance is back in place.

"The avalanche did affect his group. Two skiers were caught in it, and he's in the helicopter with the first one they've pulled out, headed to the hospital in Sion. I guess it was useful to have a doctor immediately on site. I'm getting Philippe to drive me there to pick him up."

"That's good news."

"Yeah. A hell of a relief. I saw the bloody thing happen; nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Shall I remain at the chalet until you bring Sherlock back?"

I look at my watch. "No. The helicopter trip may be only ten minutes, but Philippe says it will take us at least thirty minutes from Siviez to Sion; we're still in the town now. So, by the time I pry Sherlock away from his patient and then apologise to all the hospital staff he will have riled up, we'll probably hit the rush hour on the main roads back to Verbier." I try to hide my smirk. "Go on your date, Mycroft. We'll be fine."

"It's not a _date_. It's a business meeting."

"Oh?" My curiosity is piqued; Sherlock will be delighted for any bits of gossip as much as he tries to pretend the notion of Mycroft's social life repulses him.

"Francois is a research and development executive at Sandoz. This evening is an exercise in gathering intelligence about our main competitor."

"Industrial espionage. Suits you." I suppress a snort. Their interactions had been pretty friendly for just pharmaceutical acquaintances — had even brought some colour to my brother-in-law's cheeks. "Have fun."

"I intend to; no reason why one can't mix business with pleasure."

He hangs up, and I shove the phone back in my pocket. For a moment, I try to imagine what pillow talk conducted by Mycroft would be like and end up chuckling. Sometimes the two Holmes brothers are more alike than either would like to admit; their dedication to their work often overrides paying attention to relationships. I remember several instances after sex when I've just lounged there, on our bed, boneless and happy, when Sherlock has suddenly leapt out of bed and run starkers to his laptop because he's had some grand idea or epiphany concerning his current research project and promptly forgot all about me. Mind you, properly ravished, he often falls asleep; it's just when I entice him into bed from the middle of doing something that interests him, he sometimes struggles to turn off his brain for the duration of our lovemaking. I try not to take offence when he gets distracted; it's just Sherlock being Sherlock.

God, I'm so relieved he's alright. I am going to kiss him senseless tonight.

As the journey continues down the mountain roads in the deepening twilight, my thoughts drift along to how Sherlock has changed over the years to let me into his life. When we first met, he was an emotional porcupine whose knee-jerk reaction was to repel people forcefully before they had a chance to hurt him. The timing of our first meeting was serendipitous; he was under so much pressure that he ended up seeking my help. It appeared he had no one else to turn to; otherwise, I doubt he would have opened up to me like that about being on the Spectrum. He still treats it as something of a dark secret he guards carefully, and he remains a fiercely private person whose work persona is a carefully constructed act. Few and far between are the precious moments when he feels safe enough to allow other people to get to know him a bit. I've always felt like an elephant in a china shop when trying to manage our relationship but then again, that's not dissimilar to how he has described his difficulties in deciphering my expectations and emotions. We're two idiots in love, it seems, but we've had years to learn how to read one another.  
  


______________

  
  
By the time Philippe turns the car into the Sion hospital complex, it's getting dark. He follows the signs marked _Urgences_ , which even my very limited grasp of French can translate as the A&E department.

Before he drops me off, Philippe speaks up. "Traffic here is better now that the _parking à plusieurs étages_ has been built. I wait. Call me when you are ready to leave, and I will collect you here." He pulls up at the _Urgences_ entrance for walk-in patients.

Knowing Sherlock, it's going to take some time to extract him; he'll want to know what imaging results will reveal about his patient's injuries.

"Are you sure? It could be a while. We could always get a taxi if you are supposed to end your shift soon," I suggest to Philippe.

"No problem. This is what I am paid to do. Better to be helping someone who is seeing to the welfare of an injured skier than transporting a load to yet another _aprés-ski_ party."

"Thanks. I'll make sure to give some feedback to the chalet company; you've been great."

I head into the reception area and scan it quickly but can spot no one with dark and curly hair and black ski wear, so I make a beeline for the reception desk. No matter what part of the world I am in or how advanced the hospital is, there is always an air of urgency in the faces of the staff at A&E. This triage nurse, however, looks unstressed and approachable.

" _Bonsoir, Monsieur_."

"I hope you speak English because I don't speak French." I'm glad Sherlock won't have had language problems; he speaks fluent French, German and Italian.

" _Oui_ , I do. How can I help?"

"I'm here to meet my husband. He's a doctor who was skiing when one of his party was caught in an avalanche. He accompanied the victim in the helicopter, so I assume he is back there?" I point over her shoulder into the treatment area, behind a set of frosted glass doors.

"Name?"

Not being sure which she is asking for, Sherlock's or the patient's, and I don't know the latter. "His name is Sherlock Holmes; I'm John Watson."

"Holmes, _oui._ " She types something quickly, then frowns while making a few mouse clicks. She then reaches over to the printer beside the desk and hands over a printed badge. "There is tape that will peel off; please wear it." She points to the doors. "Through there and turn right. Count six cubicles, he will be on the left."

I thank her and waste no time in making my way through the set of doors. Some of the cubicles have curtains drawn shut while others have been shut only partly, probably to give patients privacy to each other but easy access to medical staff. Their numbers seem in more abundant supply at this A&E than in the Kings' equivalent.

At the sixth cubicle, I turn to my left… and stop in my tracks.

Where I had expected to see Sherlock in ski wear beside the patient's bed, the only one standing there is a grey-haired, bespectacled man in a white coat with dark green scrubs underneath. Startled, I sweep my gaze past him to see the patient on the trolley: monitors, wires, IV tubing are snaking about, a nasal oxygen cannula in place, eyes closed, messy, blackish curls above an extraordinarily pale face. 

_Very familiar_ black curls. What the _hell_?

I manage to blurt out, "Sherlock?"

The doctor turns to me, the look in his eyes inquisitive and a bit alarmed. "Who are you?"

"Doctor John Watson. I'm his husband. He said he was escorting an avalanche victim here."

" _Non_ , he is the victim."

I am sure that my face must be betraying the shock as it battles with fear at this news. Then, anger is added to the mix as I realise Sherlock had lied to me.

The physician announces himself, offering his hand for shaking. "Doctor Claus Charbonnet."

I ignore all that and repeat the question; "What happened?"

"Avalanche at Lac de Cleuson."

"I _know_ that; I was _there_ , below the dam!" I snap, then feel instantly embarrassed at re-routing my ire to a colleague who's done nothing to warrant it. "I mean his injuries, _Doctor."_

Sherlock hasn't opened his eyes to my voice, which is alarming in itself. I shift to the right side of the bed and can now see on the monitor that his heart rate is low — a bit too low for my liking. He's wrapped up in space blankets, but a corner of one has been folded away to allow access to an intraosseal line into which IV fluids are being administered with an infuser.

"Hypothermia? What else?" I demand.

The doctor is shaking his head. " _Je suis vraiment désolé_ ; I cannot say without patient consent."

"I said I am his husband; _family_ ," I emphasise.

The response is a Gallic shrug. " _En Suisse_.. here, this does not matter. The rules, the law, require he give consent to share medical information."

Clenching my jaw tight, I manage to hold my temper. "I have lasting medical power of attorney." It's something that we'd both set up after Malawi. That trip and my injury in Afghanistan taught us the lesson that anything can happen at any time that can render a person unable to make sound medical decisions for themselves.

Again, a shaken head. "It needs to be a document legal in this country; if not, it cannot be taken into account."

Livid, I am tempted to snatch the damned clipboard Charbonnet is carrying and find out for myself. Instead, I pick up Sherlock's hand. I have no idea whether he is asleep or unconscious, but the latter would have warranted securing his airway, and I'd spoken with him earlier, plus there's no visible evidence of head trauma. I decide to investigate further by pinching the cuticle of his left index finger with particular ferocity. I can feel a reflexive tremor, but Sherlock's eyes don't open. Is he _feigning_? The thought makes my blood boil. I reach under the space blanket and come into contact with his bare chest. As I rub a knuckle hard against his sternum, the Swiss doctor protests but I ignore the man.

Sherlock's eyelids flutter; he gasps just as the doctor steps forward. "You must leave, _monsieur_ , before I call security; you must not hurt patients."

"I'm not _hurting_ him; just conducting a Glasgow Coma Scale, since you can't be bothered to tell me what I need to know. Sherlock… eyes open, _now!_ "

If that last word comes out a little loud, I don't give a damn, especially when it has the desired effect. A pair of verdigris eyes open, accompanied by a groan.

"There you are," I snap. "Right. Do you know where you are, Sherlock?" I think the right answer is _in deep shit,_ but I hold my tongue, waiting for him to come fully awake.

He looks around and mutters, "Hospital."

"And which hospital might that be?"

"Sion." He draws a breath, coughs and then winces before closing his eyes again.

I put my knuckle on his sternum again, but this time without any force. "No, you're sure as hell going to keep your eyes on me right now."

They are dragged open again, and he's looking at me in confusion, now. "What's going on?"

"I might ask you the same question. In fact, I _will_ — just as soon as you tell your _doctor_ ––" I give Charbonnet a glare for good measure, and our colleague pinches his lips together in annoyance, _"––_ that you consent to him sharing with _your_ _husband_ whatever medical information he has about you being in the _fucking avalanche_ that you blithely told me you'd escaped."

"What?" Sherlock is looking utterly baffled at my barrage or words. For the first time since I'd realised he'd lied, it makes me wonder if this confusion is genuine. It is, after all, a known symptom of hypothermia.

More gently, I ask again: "Just say _yes, you consent_. In Switzerland, the fact that we're married isn't enough. He has to hear you say yes."

"Monsieur Holmes?" The doctor encourages.

Sherlock averts his gaze from me to look over at the man on the other side of the bed. His brows knit together, and it seems to take him a moment to work out what he's supposed to do. "Yes. _Oui,_ " he finally parses together. He coughs again and then closes his eyes, mumbling, "Save time… tell him everything." He clears his throat. "He's a doctor, _il va comprendre le jargon médical. En Anglais, s'il vous plaît; il est nul en langues étrangères._ "

I glare across the bed at the officious Swiss. " _Now_ , please."

"He was brought in on Air-Glaciers helicopter, evacuated from the avalanche." Charbonnet consults the chart. "He arrived forty-three minutes ago." He then flips over to the first of several sheets. "Extracted from a complete burial, at a depth of thirty centimetres. He was conscious and had been so from the first contact by the skiers who had cleared a pathway for oxygen by the time the GRIMM doctor arrived. Oxygen was provided while the rest of the snow was removed, a process that took a further twelve minutes. Vital signs at first contact: tympanic temperature was thirty-three degrees while still in the insulation of the snow, and he was shivering. As OCVS protocols indicate, an injection of fentanyl was administered to help with pain."

I wonder what pain he's talking about; why would Sherlock have been in pain if he just got buried in snow? I realise I know very little about Alpine emergency medicine.

"When he was freed from the snow, his core temperature fell to thirty-one point two degrees, consistent with afterdrop symptom, borderline stage two hypothermia," Charbonnet tells me as though I'm familiar with such a classification. "As soon as he was in the helicopter, an IV was started into the humerus because there was no available vein presented; this is common with hypothermia, and it appears Monsieur Holmes has some scarring––"

"Yes, yes," I cut in. It appears I feel a need to spare Sherlock's blushes by sidestepping the issue of his past narcotics use even when I'm this angry with him.

Charbonnet shifts his weight. "Wet clothing was removed, chemical heating packs and warming blankets applied. At this stage, his confusion increased, although he remained conscious. His airway was adequate, so no intubation. _Bradypnée_ , _oxymètre_ pulse readings borderline with supplemental oxygen, pulse rate low but all these have improved now."

The doctor closes the folder and meets my eyes. "There was no sign of head or spine trauma, initial diagnosis confirmed by his first examination here. X-rays show a fractured seventh rib on the left side, but no other broken bones. _Tomographie_ of the head was normal. There is extensive bruising to his legs, including periosteal contusion of both shins above ski boot. Very common with avalanches when they carry victim for some distance."

Carry the victim…? I definitely don't want to start dwelling on that. "Treatment plan?"

"I was going to draw blood for a second gases check and to request compression and elevation to his legs to help with the haematoma. He's just had paracetamol and some more morphine. Fentanyl is very short-act––"

"I know," I cut in rather brusquely, and indicate myself. "Anesthetist."

Charbonnet nods with an "Oh."

While taking in the full report, I have been watching Sherlock's face, which shows no emotion at all. He's avoiding my gaze, but his eyes look more alert now, less cloudy with confusion.

More than a little rattled by all this, I snap at him. "Why did you lie to me when I phoned you? What on earth possessed you?"

"Did I? I have no memory of that."

"How convenient. Were you planning on just walking out of here and meeting me in the lobby? What about this mythical patient you were escorting here?"

Charbonnet intervenes, "There was another victim. He was buried two meters down and died in transit." 

"Oh…" The distress in Sherlock's voice makes me look back at him. His eyes are open, his expression stricken. "Pavel… Of all the people, he'd have known what to do in an avalanche."

Sadly, Charbonnet shakes his head. "Knowledge is not enough; it matters very much how deep you are buried. You were lucky."

Sherlock draws breath and then starts pushing the blanket down. "I'm discharging myself. We're going back to the chalet, John."

My hand shoots back onto his chest to keep him from climbing out.

"Non, non, this is _absolument pas recommandé._ You must remain for observation––" Charbonnet protests.

Sherlock shoves my arm aside and starts to sit up. "I have a doctor of my own, my husband, who is perfectly competent to _observe me_." Suddenly, he gasps, grimaces and braces his side with his left hand.

I can't resist. "Serves you right. You're an idiot if you think you're getting out of here tonight."

He looks up at me, clearly hurt more by my implacable tone than by what his broken rib must be doing to him. Then he looks away, angry and defensive. "I want to go. _Now."_ I notice he's shivering intensely.

"How the hell do you think I can trust you to be honest about your symptoms? Damn it, Sherlock. You should have told me when I called you."

Charbonnet intervenes. "Please, understand something, _Docteur_ Watson. If he spoke to you on the phone just after he was extracted, the combination of hypoxia, hypothermia and shock, as well as the fentanyl, would mean he maybe was not be making much sense to himself, and it would explain that he has no memory of it."

I inhale and crinkle my nose. Of course, our colleague is right, and it would be convenient for all concerned to believe his words. But I am not quite prepared to let Sherlock off the hook, because I know that, even if he'd been in his right mind at the time, my husband would have minimised it all, hoping to be able to shrug off any injuries as minor because he wouldn't want to admit that throwing himself down a mountainside at speed is actually dangerous. "No, you're not going anywhere tonight. I'm staying right here, and so are you, until they think you are fit for discharge."

"John, _please._ You know what I think of hospitals."

The Swiss raises his eyebrows. "What sort of doctor are you?" He asks Sherlock. " _Psychiatre_?"

I answer for him. "Consultant Neurosurgeon _extraordinaire._ And also one of the world's absolutely worst patients."

The Swiss looks at his patient, shaking his head. "I must concur with your husband. There are complications which may show only a bit later. Most avalanche victims breathe in the snow, the powder. In your lungs, this is not good. It could cause aspiration pneumonia, which takes time to develop. Your cardiac monitoring is still showing many _extrasystoliques_. I need to check blood gases again to see if your gas exchange issues have resolved. You must also accept that you may not be thinking clearly. Avalanche victims almost always endure transient dizziness, fainting, and anxiety. If the idea of staying here is distressing you, then it could be a sign of this happening. To leave now is wrong. You must know this."

Sherlock slumps back onto the bed with a grunt and a histrionic sigh, then drags the space blanket back onto his torso.

I aim my next question at the A&E doctor: "What happens next?"

"We monitor him here until we see acceptable blood gas results. Then, he will go overnight to a general ward upstairs."

There is another groan from the bed, this time more theatrical in tone. "A torture chamber. Noise, smells, _people._ Why on earth you think that is better than me being back at the chalet where I could actually get some rest?"

"Can I stay with him?" I ask.

"Until he is moved upstairs."

My glare should be strong enough to pin Sherlock to the bed, but just in case he isn't getting the message, I add the command: "Stay put. I need to send Philippe back to Verbier to sort some things out."

I notice a plastic bag underneath the trolley, filled with his clothes. "I'm taking this to the car." It's further insurance that he won't self-discharge — he'd have to run around half-naked without his phone or wallet.

______________

  
  
By the time Philippe pulls up at the entrance my anger has dissipated, and my knees feel a bit weak. It has just sunk in that the other person buried in that avalanche is dead. Sherlock had seemed visibly shaken by the news. How far apart were the two of them skiing?

I take a moment to just stand at the kerb, the plastic bag gripped hard in my hand without making a move to climb into the back seat, the door of which Philipp is holding open for me.

"Doctor Watson? Where is––"

"He's––" I swallow, "He's the one they brought in. Not someone else. There was no patient, I mean apart from just him, rescued from the avalanche. Well, there was another, but they died before reaching the hospital."

Philipp closes the car door, reaches out for the plastic bag which I give him. "Should I collect Monsieur Mycroft Holmes and bring him here?"

What he's really asking is how badly Sherlock's been hurt. "He's just under observation. He'll be alright."

I do need to call Mycroft. I expect he'll have a few choice words for his brother, too.

"Please, Doctor Watson; have a seat." Philippe opens the door again, coaxes me to climb in. He then goes to the trunk, which I assume is to deposit the plastic bag there, but when he comes back, he's holding a plastic mug and a bottle.

"A Russian group left this with me. I keep it for special occasions for clients." With a conspiratorial smile, he pours me a generous helping of what turns out to be vodka by the name of _Moskovskaya Osobaya._ "You've had a fright," he explains.

I huff out a breath. "You can bloody say that again." After taking a swig, I lean my back against the seat and close my eyes.

Philippe finds a spot for the car close to the hospital pharmacy in the visitor's parking area.

"I don't know if they cut up his clothes. I didn't look in the bag," I realise now that they would have had to do that in the helicopter. "Maybe you could bring some of his clothes from the chalet in the morning? Mister Holmes will pack them for you."

"Certainly, Doctor Watson."

"I can release you for tonight; I don't think they'll discharge Doctor Holmes until tomorrow." I certainly hope so. I am now less keen to teach him a lesson than I am to make sure he'll be fine, that he's not developing complications. I want to wrap him in some more blankets and never, _ever_ let him out of my sight again. He may have lied to me, but I'll forgive him for that eventually. What I would not have forgiven is if he'd––

I take another large mouthful of vodka, and then pull my phone out of my jacket.

______________

Explaining everything to Mycroft helps me sort the facts out in my head, and when we ring off, I feel my thoughts clearing and a modicum of calm sets in. I send Philippe on his way and stop by at the hospital cafeteria for some snacks; there's no guarantee Sherlock will have eaten anything since the accident.

That's what it is — an accident.

Ripping open a packet of crisps, I sit on a bench near the cashier. I want to take a moment before going back to the A&E department. Sherlock knows I'm angry; he's likely to think it's not just because he lied to me, but also because I hate his riskier hobbies.

 _He doesn't do these things deliberately to make me worry_ , I tell myself. _He hired a professional guide. He carries emergency equipment. He doesn't pick routes beyond his abilities._

I'm not cross at him for doing these things; I'm angry because I'm scared. It's not his fault, is it, that these are the kinds of things he enjoys? He didn't choose to have his particular brain. It's not his fault that trying to entertain him with something safe and easy and… _normal_ just wouldn't work. I love him for all he is, because of who he is, because he's not like anyone else. Whatever blunders he's inadvertently made in our relationship, he has never, _ever_ deliberately hurt me.

Lots of people ski. Accidents happen. Sherlock could've been hit by a car in London, instead, or suffered some other thing that's statistically so much likelier. So far, I've been so preoccupied with just reacting, for being enraged by what I am having to endure and process that I've not yet quite considered his side of the story. It's easier to be angry than it is to really think about what happened. What was it like? When did he realise what was going to happen? What was it that the doctor had said… was it fifteen minutes it took to dig him out? How'd his rib get cracked? What did he think about, buried under all that snow? Fifteen minutes is a very, very long time when you're fearing for your life. I remember very little about when I got shot, but I remember seconds passing like years. I was dimly aware of how fast everything happened, but it still felt like a lifetime, felt as if time had stopped.

I was scared as I watched that mass of snow moving down the slope, but it must have been much, much worse for him. I'm still scared because residual fear doesn't disappear in an instant. How does he feel right now, really? Even when calm with his full wits about him, communicating his feelings is difficult for Sherlock.

I shove a handful of crisps into my mouth, crunch them and swallow them down, disinterested in the rest of the packet. I go back to the cashier, buy some more treats, tempted to ask for a plastic bag so I can empty the contents of the shelves into it to comfort my sweet-toothed husband.

 _It was an accident._ In the mountains, accidents happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are very grateful to @sentiens, aka @bumblebee-and-tea on tumblr, who is a former skier, knows Verbier, is Swiss, is familiar with Sion Hospital and has provided us invaluable help with our non-existent French skills!


	7. Forgive But Not Forget

By the time I get back, Sherlock is in the process of being moved, but only diagonally across the corridor into the cubicle at the end of the row.

Doctor Charbonnet is reading another patient's blood gas measurement in the corridor when he spots my arrival. He gives me an odd look. "Evening, Doctor Watson."

"Why has my husband been moved?"

"Instructions about _Monsieur_ Holmes' admission have just changed. I am told by my head of department that your husband is to be kept here for the night rather than moved to the ward upstairs."

I heave a sigh of relief at this news. Mycroft had mentioned that he knew some bigwig at Sion, so it appears he has been able to swing something that is going to work better for all concerned. Mycroft had found out that family members are not allowed on wards past visiting hours, but that the ITU and the A&E department are more lenient in this regard.

Charbonnet is shaking his head in bewilderment. "It is lucky that so far tonight has been quiet, and there is space. But this is not usual… I am so sorry."

"No need to apologise, not at all, this is _good_ ," I assume him. "We both appreciate it. It means I can stay with him all night, which your nurses will be grateful for — he's a handful when he's cranky and on his own. Did you get a new arterial blood sample?" Sherlock must have been over the moon to have his radial artery repeatedly punctured. I wonder why they hadn't put in a line to facilitate frequent blood samples and continued blood pressure monitoring. Perhaps they see enough hypothermia patients to know which ones will recover quickly and which ones will need more intensive treatment.

"Yes. All _parametré_ have returned to normal. He may still develop pneumonia," the physician reminds me.

"Right." There's very little that can be done at this stage to prevent it — if he's even inhaled any snow — and shouldn't it be showing on his imaging results or the blood gases at this stage if it was going to be a major issue?

"Chest x-ray?" I assume one was taken soon after he arrived.

" _Ordinaire_."

My lip quirks up at the French term. Sherlock is anything _but_ that.

The Swiss purses his lips. "Perhaps it is not my place, but I have some advice… Your husband needs comforting more than chastisement. For all the cases of avalanche I have treated here, there is one thing: it is an _expérience terrifiante._ It can help him to talk about this experience. Some compassion for his ordeal and the death of his fellow skier might help to calm him."

Sherlock won't be calm until he's rid of this place, but I still nod emphatically. "Yeah, I get that now. Thank you, Doctor; I appreciate everything that you and the emergency services have done for him. I'm sure he does, too."

 _"Bonne nuit_ , _Docteur_ Watson. My colleague on the next shift will introduce herself."

I thank him again and bid him good night, then head for the last cubicle.

Sherlock is now dressed in a mint-green patient gown, and the space blankets have been replaced with two regular ones and a top sheet. They're still administering warmed IV fluids, but I notice there is now a regular IV on the crook of his elbow and a dressing where the intraosseal needle had been inserted. He's in a hospital bed instead of a trolley, and the foot of it has been elevated, presumably to keep his shins from swelling even more. A quick glance at the monitor on the shelf above his head gives me the same reassurance as the results Doctor Charbonne had summarised: his condition has improved in the short time I've been absent.

What has deteriorated, however, is his mood, if the look of discontent on his face is anything to go by. He's watching my every move as I close the curtain behind me.

As soon as I pull the chair up alongside the bed, he opens his mouth, and I know that he is about to unleash a series of complaints. I raise a finger to forestall the inevitable. "Nope. Just be quiet and listen for a minute, will you?"

He closes his mouth and glares daggers at me, instead.

"First of all, Mycroft sends his… love." This gets an eye roll about which I decide not to chastise Sherlock. His brother had understandably been rather rattled by my phone call; he had been lulled into a false sense of security just as I was.

"For the love of God, please tell me he hasn't called the parental unit," Sherlock groans.

"No, he hasn't. We decided it would be best if they didn't have to worry since you're, um––" The word 'alright' doesn't quite seem to fit, especially considering what Doctor Charbonnet has just told me. _I_ don't feel quite alright, and I wasn't the one buried under an avalanche. "––recovering," is what I settle for.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock protests. "All I need are a few blankets, fluids and a set of clothes. We have all that in the chalet." He coughs, which makes his heart flip into a series of premature ventricular beats.

I raise my brows pointedly, cock my head towards the monitor. He must have felt those beats; they often feel as though one's heart has lurched towards one's throat.

"I'm _fine_ ," he growls from between clenched teeth. "Mycroft's not coming _here,_ is he?"

"No, he's at the chalet. He'll send you some clothes in the morning with Philippe, who'll take us home, assuming they don't want to keep you longer."

"Not up to them," Sherlock mutters. "They destroyed my jacket and didn't even ask for consent when they drilled in that barbaric thing. If I get osteomyelitis from it––"

Once again, I interrupt his diatribe with a stern look. "You won't. And judging by what I was told, you were in no condition to consent genuinely."

"It _hurt_. At least until they injected some local anaesthetic."

"Yeah, well, it's like taking a bone marrow sample. If I had a patient with hypothermia and scarred antecubital veins, I would have probably gone for the drill bit, too."

"At least you have some skill with IVs, unlike that idiot who needed three tries _with_ an ultrasound to get this in." Sherlock raises his arm, presents the IV taped to it.

I pinch my lips, aware that I must take care not to get swept off into the current of sherlockian complaints. I have things I need off my chest, things he needs to hear.

Instead of the chair beside the bed, I lower the railing and take a seat next to his left knee, giving his blanket-covered thigh a pat. "I'm sorry I shouted at you, love. People do that when they get stressed. A bit like you, probably about to start giving me more grief about not letting you pretend that you're well enough to walk out of here under your own steam. When you can't get your way, you get bolshie and start tearing into people, but that's the stress talking. Let's face it — when stressed and scared, I shout, while you go all-out prima donna."

He pouts and stops looking at me, glaring at the fluorescent lamp over the bed, instead.

I lift the topmost blanket and tuck it up so it covers his bare arms, still goose-bumped and pale. "So, let's be civil about this. I was scared. From where I was sitting below the dam, I _saw_ that avalanche. Until you answered the phone, I couldn't stop myself from imagining you dead. It's not something I ever want to go through again." Recalling all that makes me stop, eyes prickling. I have to clench my jaw and take a shaky breath before I can continue. "You know that anger is a thing with me. It's how I react when I'm scared. Just so you know, there is nothing that makes me more scared than the thought of losing you. So, this is me apologising for biting your head off when I first got here."

"I'm alive, John."

"Yeah, and do you have any idea how relieved I am?" I reach over and take his hand into mine. It's a bit warmer now than it was when I first pinched his cuticle. He's looking at our interlaced fingers as if he's worrying that I might be about to do it again. I know his reaction to touch is variable, and I just hope that whatever he's been through hasn't been even worse for him than it would be for people who don't suffer from his sensory issues. I'm not particularly claustrophobic, but the idea of being entombed in snow seems pretty terrifying.

"Now you know how it feels."

My hand, stroking his arm on top of the duvet now, stops even before the words properly sink in. My knee-jerk reaction is, once again, anger, because his words sound like revenge.

 _He doesn't mean it like that,_ I scramble to remind myself. _He didn't risk his life on purpose_. _He took all the precautions_.

He's blinking, now; perhaps he's realised how his comment has sounded. "John, I–– I didn't––"

What he sounds like, now, is just sad and unsure — as though he's made some terrible, embarrassing admission. I shouldn't be surprised that he'd say such a thing. It's not even that low a blow — just a fact. I know he struggled when I was in Afghanistan and didn't tell me. I know what it did to him when I was injured, and he spent a long, hellish flight from Brize Norton to Kabul not even knowing if he was going to return with his husband or with a coffin. We're not even. We're not even, because I nearly succumbed to dengue in Malawi as it almost wrecked my kidneys while he tried everything that he could to get me evacuated out of the rural area in which we were stationed. Twice, now, I've almost died on him, so getting angry at him for what happened today must feel like a double standard. 

I don't think it'll do either of us any good to start talking about the past right now. He's had a fright, and that's what this ought to be about. "I know you didn't mean it like that. How much do you remember about the avalanche? It must have been horrible for you."

He huffs. "I'm fine, and I'd be even better if people stopped dwelling on the damned thing. Why can’t we go home tonight? What is the point of this? I can use pillows to prop up my legs. Having you next to me in bed would be warmer than this. You know I won't be able to sleep in this bloody racket." He plucks at the synthetic blanket in dismay after narrowing his eyes towards the corridor where some other patient's monitor has just begun to wail.

I slip my hand into my pocket and retrieve one of the things I'd picked up at the cafeteria which doubles as a hospital store. He accepts the earplugs without a word.

"The ward might've been quieter, but they're likely to discharge you faster from here in the morning. And, unlike on a bed ward, I'm allowed to keep you company, which is why your brother pulled whatever strings he could to keep you down here. Turns out, he knows a couple of the senior people here; his company's in big with the cardiovascular institute based at Sion. So, this is the best it's going to get."

A melodramatic sigh.

"Cheer up. I'm just grateful that things didn't turn out a whole lot worse."

Sherlock's looking down when he mumbles something so quietly that I don't catch it.

"Come again?"

Hesitantly, he lifts his eyes to mine. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you."

"Of course, you didn't. But not being honest about what we're feeling? That's something I thought we'd got over after my bullet wound and your halo. Honesty, Love, that's all I'm asking. Tell me what happened. Talk to me." I raise his hand to my lips, kiss his knuckles.

He sighs again, and it's a small, frustrated, tight exhalation instead of his usual histrionics. He pulls his hand away.

"Try," I prompt.

Footsteps out in the corridor turn into a hand pulling the curtain aside, and a nurse enters, carrying a tray. "Time to eat something and have some hot sweet chocolate."

Whatever he might have said to me is left unsaid as Sherlock uses the controls to raise the back of the bed so that he is in a sitting position.

" _Bon appétit,"_ the nurse declares.

Food is the first thing Sherlock always loses interest in when he's anxious or upset, so the focus he directs to the offerings of bread and cheese and vegetable sticks speaks volumes. It's obvious he really, really doesn't want to talk about what has happened.

It's going to be a long night.

**__________________  
  
  
  
**

The next interruption isn't as welcome as the arrival of food to the cubicle had been. When the tray is removed, the nurse returns, carrying both a urine bottle and a specimen cup. "Another test, and then you can sleep."

She places the equipment on the tray and starts to reach for the blankets. Sherlock swats her hands away with a venomous flash of his eyes. "I know how to do a mid-stream catch. What do you even need this for? I had my backpack on, that should offer my kidneys some protection."

"You must ask the doctor."

Sherlock evicts the nurse with just a look. He's good at that.

My snark about the bottle being at least better than a Foley earns me a Sherlockian death glare. He knows as well as I do that the urine sample is needed to rule out any bruising to his kidneys, so cornering the poor nurse was just his way of expressing… whatever it is that needs expression-by-deflection at the moment.

"Better safe than sorry," I argue.

My platitude does little to mollify him. I reason that he hardly cares if I'm present for the proceedings, so I lean back in my chair and fire off a text to Mycroft while Sherlock produces the sample.

As soon as he's finished, he uses the bed control again to lower his head down to the horizontal.

I reach over to prise the control from his hand and use it to elevate his head to thirty degrees. "You know that a broken rib means sleeping more upright for the first three nights."

A theatrical groan emerges, followed by a cough. "How anyone could sleep in this position is beyond my comprehension." He indicates his pillow-elevated feet with his hand. Grumpy as hell, he then snaps, "If you want to be useful, go tell them to turn off this wretched overhead light. It's giving me a headache."

Once that's done, Sherlock eventually — and I am using the word 'eventually' in a rather charitable manner — Sherlock falls asleep. For a while, I think he is feigning, but when he lets out a snore that I recognise from his days in the halo, I know he's truly succumbed. He really does hate to sleep on his back but, as long as his legs and chest need to be elevated, this noise is going to be the norm again. At the chalet, the bedroom cabinet is full of extra bedding, but that isn't the case at home, so I start counting the numbers of pillows at Baker Street and wonder how I can stack them up to mimic the correct angles.

Sherlock being asleep means I can finally get up, stretch and find the loo, something I've been needing for almost an hour. That said, my discomfort right now is likely nothing like his when he'd been forced to collect the sample in the cubicle instead of the privacy of a loo. As he rearranged his bedding, I'd caught a glimpse of his bare legs; the bruising looked quite impressive even if it hasn't probably even developed fully yet.

I'm half-way down the corridor as another visitor is headed towards me. He's somewhere in his early fifties, a tanned and lined face, with eyes looking sad and weary. He glances at my name badge and suddenly stops. "John Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Markus Branger."

Neither the face nor the name means anything to me, and my reaction must be showing because he adds, "FreedomSki Verbier. I left messages on your voicemail service."

I shake my head. "Sorry?" I pull my phone out and see that the screen is showing SOS calls only. "Battery's gone," I say in a low, quiet voice to prevent rousing Sherlock.

He nods. "Your name was on the emergency contact list. Eventually, I called the address Mister Holmes gave on our form. The Chalet service told me you were already here."

I put the pieces together

"You're the guide?" I ask him.

When he nods, I continue, "Sherlock called me from the scene of the accident. Told me that he was being airlifted here."

"I see. When I could be sure he had oxygen, I'd moved on to try to find the other skier. When we got here to the hospital, while I was waiting for news about the other skier caught in the avalanche, I checked in on him. It must have been before you got here."

"I heard the other skier didn't make it."

"No." Branger looks stricken. "I've just finished speaking with his family back in the Czech Republic and dealing with all the paperwork. It is _la tragédie_. First client our company has lost in seven years."

Branger looks over my shoulder, down the corridor to where Sherlock is. "Your husband is okay? No major injuries?"

I'm trying hard to ignore the call of my bladder, but it's getting urgent. "Sherlock's going to be fine, but they want to keep him here overnight. I'd rather you didn't wake him."

Branger nods. "Can we talk, you and me?"

"Um, after I use the toilet."

"I'll get coffee. I am in need of it. You?"

When I nod, we agree to rendezvous at the chairs down at the nurses' station.

When I get back, the guide's sitting down, head bowed. He looks exhausted. There is a cup of coffee with milk in it sitting on the chair beside him, which I pick up and start to knock it back at speed.

" _Pardon_. I didn't know if you like milk or sugar."

"It's fine." It feels good going down; warm and sweet is what I am in need of at the moment.

He draws a weary breath. "I've been guiding for twenty years. Never lost a client before. Accidents, of course, but no fatalities. And nothing like this."

"I saw the avalanche from down below the dam, but couldn't see what happened when the snow hit the lake. The ski patrol wouldn't let me up."

"Has your husband told you what happened?"

"No. It seems he doesn't want to talk about it."

Branger leans back and sips from his coffee. "Your man is a good skier and a clear thinker. He didn't panic. Did all the right things. If there had been more of a gentle slope to slow the snow down, he might well have escaped complete burial."

"What happened to the other guy?"

"He wasn't able to get far enough away from the track. A ski patrolman himself, but an avalanche does not consider these things. He was in the wrong place the wrong time; it was no one's fault. Most avalanches are caused by stupid mistakes, skiers falling, triggering the collapse. Not this time. It came, how do you English say it? _Out of the blue_."

I nod. "I checked the warnings and forecasts. Not a very high danger level today, was it?"

"Mont Fort Backside is always a bit riskier, but it is the section at Lac de Cleuson that is worst. That is why we have all the liability forms." Branger's tight-lipped smile is apologetic. "Pavel was buried under three and a half meters of snow. We saw it happen, so protocol says we had to find Sherlock first as he had the most chance of survival."

My _thank you_ is a quiet exhalation. "How… how did you find him?"

"He had his transponder, and we could hear his phone ringing. I called him. I was able to speak with him."

"While he was still under?" I am astonished — and relieved when Branger nods. Hearing the voices of his rescuers must have helped Sherlock keep calm. I suddenly realise it had to have been Branger he was on the phone with when I was trying to call him, too.

"You are sure he is going to be alright? The doctors here did not seem to be too concerned about him," Branger asks.

"He'll be fine. Just a touch of hypothermia, some bruises." I decide the guide doesn't need to know all the details.

"I know it isn't my place, but there is something you should know. If he wants to ski again, you should not try to stop him."

My first impulse is to laugh, but then a gust of anger hits. "I really don't think there's a need to tempt fate twice."

"I mean it. I see many, many skiers in my job. Most are doing it for the thrill, the excitement, the risk, the camaraderie. That's not why he skis."

"Why do you think he does it, then?" I am aware of the challenge in my voice. It seems a bit presumptuous to be lectured about _my_ spouse, _my Sherlock_ , by someone who's known him for less than a day.

"I watched him. I recognised something… my father, he was like it, too. They ski to remind themselves that their mind and their body can do these things together better than he can think. It's an escape. He did not seek maximum speed or the most daring line down. He just enjoyed it. Never wanted to compete or seek danger out on purpose."

Somehow, that doesn't sound like Sherlock. What I know of my husband is that he's highly competitive, enjoys a bit of adrenaline.

I must have let my confusion at Branger's statement show because he snorts. "I'm not explaining this well. I just had the sense that it's important for him. Maybe it's… freedom. Maybe he doesn't get much chance for that, I mean?" Branger shrugs.

Put like that, his words do make me wonder: Sherlock has always thought of his body more as transport for his brain, something to be tolerated. Is skiing different?

Tentatively, I offer a potential explanation: "A neurosurgeon has to have mastery over his fine motor skills, to work with the precision needed. He clearly enjoys that, thinks of it as problem-solving."

"Just so — the brain must control the body. Skiing releases the whole body and brings the brain on board. Maybe he enjoys it because he needs this release."

Right now, I don't particularly care why he does it. "I don't want to lose him."

"Of course not. But there are other losses, too, which should be avoided. If he doesn't get back on the skis, what happened will get bigger in his mind. Might be frightening to get back to it, the longer a break he takes."

 _Back in the saddle_. I don't think so.

The guide tips the rest of his coffee down his throat and then crumples the cup. "I need to go home now. My wife will want to hear everything."

"How does she deal with the danger you face every day?" If my tone is a bit accusatory, so be it.

"She knows that skiing is who I am. She could not love the person I am if she did not know and accept this. Good night, Mister Watson. When he wakes, tell him that I came by to see him. I have passed all his insurance information to the emergency and evacuation services; they should not charge you anything, but you may need to sign some papers."

"Of course, Thank you again. You saved his life."

"It's my job; I teach so others can ski, too. All in the group helped with rescue."

When he offers his hand, I shake it firmly.  
  
  



	8. Discharge

Philippe arrives with the clothing at eight in the morning, and I am surprised to find that Mycroft had handed over not the soft, casual winter clothes I was expecting but the coat Sherlock had worn in Zurich, a suit and a dress shirt, and his lace-up oxfords.

Sherlock nods his approval when I take the clothes out of the bag. "Good", he says, tone clipped. "It appears my brother does know how to follow instructions."

He'd been texting someone a few hours earlier, but I never assumed it would have been his brother. "Why? Surely, you'd be more comfortable in something a bit less formal?"

Sherlock sniffs. "Ever noticed how medical professionals treat a patient with more respect when they are better dressed? I have."

Why would he need to be treated with extra respect? The Swiss staff have been nothing but respectful and attentive. I assume he's just being his usual self and doing his damnedest to prevent others from ever getting the idea that he'd deign to become a patient. He's acting like a guided missile, wanting nothing more than to walk out the doors of this hospital and never return.

At least he'd accepted the paracetamol tablets offered. He'd refused breakfast, hobbled down the corridor leaning on my arm to use the loo and then back again. The grimace he couldn't suppress as he got out of bed is indicative that his rib is giving him pain. It had been obvious as soon as the blankets had been pushed away that the bruising is starting to come out everywhere.

"What's holding things up? I should have been discharged an hour ago." He is getting dressed, albeit slowly and with a little help from me. Bending down to put his socks had been accompanied by some serious amount of wincing which he had tried to disguise. Without a word, I'd snatched the pair from him and slipped them onto his feet. The ones he'd worn in his ski boots are nowhere to be found; they'd probably been damp from snow and sweat and thrown out. He's now perched on the edge of the bed to get his trousers on. Once the jacket completes the set, I can see his point. The bruising is hidden, he's standing up straight and looks _fine._

The curtain is pulled aside, and a doctor comes in, clipboard in hand.

"Monsieur Holmes, before we discharge you, we need to discuss the treatment plan."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "What plan? I'm a consultant surgeon. My husband's a consultant anaesthetist. We both know what to do in the case of a broken rib and some contusions."

The A&E doctor, one we hadn't seen last night so she must've come in for the morning shift, looks a bit miffed, lifts her chin and continues, "You should walk around occasionally, move your shoulders to help you breathe. Once every hour, stop and take ten slow, deep breaths to help clear the lungs, then you should cough; don’t try to suppress it. It is necessary to clear mucus from your lungs. If it hurts, hold a pillow to your chest. If you get a fever, get checked by a doctor…"

Before she can continue, Sherlock interrupts her. "What part of us both _being_ doctors did you not comprehend? I learned all that in medical school. _My husband is a physician_ who will undoubtedly undertake all the observations you can possibly imagine and then some."

" _Behave_ ," I mouth silently behind the woman's back. I know Sherlock can see me.

He balances on one leg and slaps his foot onto the chair, "John, slip my shoe on and tie it for me." It's a command rather than a request. Bending over is obviously too painful for him to do this himself, so I oblige.

The Swiss doctor resumes. "You are aware, then, that you should avoid activities that involve pulling, pushing or lifting. It could take three to six weeks before the pain eases. Be sensible about any return to work. Your legs need consideration, too, and time to heal."

"Yes, yes… just hand over the forms, and I will sign them." He reaches out for the clipboard in the woman's hand, while swapping his now shod foot for the socked one.

She takes a step back to keep him from reaching them. " _Non, Monsieur_. There is one more person who must see you before discharge."

"Who?" The furrowed lines between Sherlock's eyebrows are accompanied by a scowl, and it is the surest sign I know that he's just about at the end of his tether.

"All avalanche victims must be seen by someone from the mental health unit. Avalanche trauma affects the mind, too."

"I don’t need any of _that_. There's _nothing wrong with me_." He grabs his coat from where it's been hung on a hook on the wall. He slips his left arm into it, but before he can do the same with his right, he squeezes his eyes shut and just breathes for a moment.

I place a hand on his shoulder and grab hold of the dark blue wool, help him ease into it.

"Don't waste any more of my time, " he growls at the A&E physician while buttoning up.

"Sherlock…" With my tone, I am trying to warn him that right behind the curtain, another woman wearing a medical staff badge has arrived. She's not wearing scrubs or a white coat, but the way she carries herself still telegraphs _doctor_. There's only one deduction to be made here: psychiatrist.

 _Oh, boy._ There is only one mental health professional Sherlock has voluntarily confided in, and that was after a long period of hemming and hawing, testing and challenging her, and that person — Doctor Joanna Pichler — still occasionally has to work hard to gain his trust.

This is going to end in carnage.

The A&E doctor leaves us just as the slim blonde I had spotted enters the cubicle and measures Sherlock up with her gaze. The contrast between her petite height — she can't be much over five foot three — and her quarry is stark. At least she doesn't appear in the slightest intimidated as she continues giving Sherlock a complete up and down look of intense scrutiny.

Unlike most people presented with the eyeful that is my husband in a suit, she doesn't smile. " _Monsieur_ Holmes, you will be seated, please." There is little politeness in the words and little amusement in her tone of voice. She must have heard the tense conversation which had taken place just before she'd made her presence known.

Her prompt provokes an equally acerbic retort. "Whoever you are, you are standing between me and the exit, which is not a good place to be. I'm leaving _._ "

" _Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît_ ; I am _Docteur_ Valérie Fiedler, with the CRR-Suva service. No one who is in an avalanche is discharged without an assessment. It is the rule, the policy. Sion Hospital includes SUVA, the rehabilitation centre for a reason."

Through gritted teeth, Sherlock replies, "I do not require rehabilitation services. As you can see, I have recovered from my _very minor_ injuries, and I will be leaving now." He turns to pick up the clear plastic bag that contains his wallet and phone.

" _Non._ This is not possible. It is not your physical injuries that concern me. My other colleagues here have attended to those. I am here to assess the _psychological_ effect of what happened yesterday."

"Pointless exercise. There are no such effects. Whatever form you have to fill in to declare that fact, do so, _now_."

I am watching this confrontation with a growing sense of unease. Sherlock is ramping up his arrogant son-of-a-bitch act to full volume, and it is going down badly if the look on the woman's face is anything to go by.

 _"Excusez-moi."_ She consults her clipboard. "It says here you are a neurosurgeon, _oui_?" Her eyes do not project delight, but she has plastered on a polite, encouraging smile.

"Yes, yes. That's on the form," Sherlock says dismissively.

"You wouldn't allow a psychiatrist such as myself to pick up a scalpel and operate on a brain tumour, would you?"

The question seems to flummox Sherlock. "Of course not. You'd kill the patient."

"Then please do me the professional courtesy of respecting _my_ specialism. You are not a psychiatrist, nor do you have the clinical expertise to conduct a self-diagnosis, even if such a thing were to be allowed, which it isn't. No one can trust themselves to be truly objective in these matters." Sherlock stiffens, draws a breath, and the pain of his rib causes him to bring his arms across his chest. He then glares at her. "Objective? Not a word I would ever connect to psychiatry. I have no need of your services, Doctor Fiedler."

"I have years of experience encountering patients who have gone through what you're experienced, and it is well established that there are significant psychological difficulties with avalanche trauma including depression, survivor guilt, anxiety, sleep disorders, and post-traumatic stress disorder. Much can be done to prevent long-term effects. Please allow me to conduct the final part of your discharge treatment plan."

Sherlock has squared his shoulders, and I can tell he's ready to march out, forms signed or not. "You cannot force me to comply. In fact, _Vous (ne) pouvez pas me forcer à faire quoi que ce soit. Par la loi, j'ai le droit de refuser."_

I've never heard anyone make the normally sensual, soft French language sound so brutal. He's not even listening to her, just repeating the same petulant things like a broken record. Doing it in her language is hardly going to trick the psychiatrist.

This has gone on long enough; I have to intervene. "Sherlock… just hold on a moment. What harm could it do? Philippe will wait as long he needs to, best get all this sorted properly so we won't have to come back here."

Doctor Fiedler seems to sense that I might be an ally here, adding, "My work also considers the role of caregivers in your recovery. Even if you are dismissive of my advice, then your husband may find it helpful."

"John is not some hysteric, and he knows how to look after a patient with a broken rib and bruising. Now, I really must insist; I'm leaving, because _there is nothing wrong with me_. "

Both of my hands are out, instinctively trying to dampen down his anger. "She's not saying that there is, Sherlock. Just calm down."

He whirls around to stare at me, " _Calm down!?_ Do you think that I'm suddenly going to go doolally because I got stuck in some snow? Why are you taking her side? What's going on here? Has Mycroft been making calls again? You haven't told my mother, have you?" There is warning in his blazing eyes that if this is the case, there will be hell to pay.

"No, I haven't, nor has Mycroft. No one's taking sides. It's just common sense. Getting help to process what happened is––"

"I am _not_ _common._ You of all people should not be trying to push some psycho-babble at me, _Mister-fuck-rehab-after-getting-shot_."

As a rule, Sherlock doesn't use profanities. That fact that he's doing it now tells me all I need to know about how _absolutely not fine_ he is.

Thankfully, his exaggerated reaction has not escaped the notice of Doctor Fiedler, who writes something down on her clipboard. She looks as though she's seen it all before. "You are exhibiting agitation and heightened anger responses, disproportionate to the situation. Do you still believe that you are not affected by your experience?"

Without thinking, I answer, apologetically, "He gets like this when––"

Sherlock looks stunned. " _John!"_ The momentary hurt in his eyes doesn't last long, however. "Oh, go on, why not give her the whole damned diagnosis while you're at it? It doesn't change anything. I am not traumatised by some avalanche. This is how the whole psychiatric industry earns its money, isn't it? You must have seen my insurance information, caught the whiff of a billing opportunity. You charlatans invent psychological trauma where there is none, come up with fashionable, nonsensical diagnoses so you can leech more money off people who are incapable of sorting out their own problems? It's not even _medicine_ , is it? Some _specialism_ that is," he snarls.

"You can waste both our time by insulting me," Fiedler says calmly; I admire her ability to not be intimidated by the full gale force of Sherlock's anger, "or we can sit down and have a civil conversation, after which I am likely to discharge you with some evidence-based advice on how best to put all this behind you."

"Either you section me, or this conversation is over." Sherlock barely gets the words out before a coughing fit hits, forcing him to wrap his arms around his torso again to keep his broken rib stable. "I dare you to try," he rasps, coughing some more.

We all know there are no grounds for an involuntary assessment in this case. As good as Doctor Fiedler's game is, she's lost. If she doesn't want to spend more time in a fruitless tug-of-war with an English surgeon, she should retreat.

Sherlock finally manages to draw in a deep breath and regains his composure. His eyebrow is raised, and for a moment, I am afraid that the fight is going to continue.

Fiedler clears her throat, looks back down at her clipboard and begins to write, announcing, "Patient has declined examination, and is discharged against physician's advice." When she has signed the form, she hands the clipboard to Sherlock with the pen.

Turning to me, she adds, "Just so you know, _Docteur_ Watson, any subsequent psychological symptoms that arise which are attributable to the avalanche will no longer be covered by your health insurance provider."

Sherlock takes his glasses out of his jacket pocket, reads and then signs the form, and the discharge document beneath it. He snaps, "In the United Kingdom, healthcare is free. Unlike the Swiss system, we do not force our citizens to enslave themselves to private health insurance companies as the price of citizenship."

I'm not entirely sure that describes the Swiss system, and prepare to apologise to Fiedler, but Sherlock is already pushing past her, making her step back to keep a socially acceptable distance. He smacks the curtain aside and marches out, and I scramble to follow.

"Sorry," I offer to Fiedler in passing; "I know you are just doing your job."

"You have my sympathy. He is _l'enfant terrible."_

I don't need to be fluent in French to understand that comment, and I nod before running to catch up with my husband.

Sherlock may have sore shins, but it hasn't stopped him from being quick: propelled by a mix of pain and anger, he's already through the doors and halfway across the waiting room to the exit by the time I get out of the restricted area.

_"Guarda, è il medico!"_

The shout comes from a knot of four young men who are standing together by the chairs nearest the door. For a moment, instincts kick in — are they calling for a doctor? They swarm forward, blocking Sherlock's departure.

He comes to a halt, as some of them start speaking in what I think is Italian.

 _“_ _Eri quello sciatore sul Mont Fort; hai salvato la vita al nostro amico.”_

Another one is grinning, _"Grazie! Grazie mille!"_ and offering his hand to shake, which Sherlock studiously ignores.

As I come closer, I hear Sherlock responding with what I think is a question: _“Come sta il vostro amico?”_

One of the youths grimaces, saying, _"Ha le ossa fratturate—caviglia, spalla,_ _clavicola_ _."_ Then he shrugs, " _Si riprenderà_."

Sherlock asks another question: " _E la sua testa? La sua spina dorsale?"_

 _“Una lieve commozione celebrale. Ha avuto fortuna.”_ _"_ The young man laughs again, " _Ha avuto fortuna che tu fossi lí in quel momento_ _."_

I've reached Sherlock's side now and raise an eyebrow when he notices me. "What's going on?"

Before he can answer, one of the youths asks another question. _"Antonio ci ha chiesto di provare a trovarti per poterti ringraziare. Lavori qui?"_

Sherlock shakes his head. " _No. Sono un neurochirurgo dall'Inghilterra._ "

_"Allora sei stato molto gentile ad aiutarlo."_

" _Prego. Non c‘é di che._ _"_

Sherlock starts to move, saying to me, "Let's go." But then, he stops just long enough to turn and say: _"_ _Non avreste dovuto chiedergli di fare la pista nera con voi; voleva sembrare coraggioso. Ma quel che_ è _ancora peggiore_ è _che lo avete abbandonato. Gli amici si proteggono a vicenda."_

Whatever Sherlock is saying to them sounds to me to like a reprimand. The group he's addressing now all look a bit sheepish, almost embarrassed.

The one who has done the most talking replies quietly: " _Va bene. Ciao._ _"_

Philippe sees us exiting and draws the SUV up to the kerb. Rather gingerly, Sherlock gets in. His rib must be hurting, and he closes his eyes once he gets his seatbelt on. Philippe is beaming at him, saying how glad he is that he is okay.

As the car leaves the hospital, I keep waiting for Sherlock to explain what had happened in the reception area. My patience lasts all of five minutes before I snap out, "What was that all about? You know I don't speak Italian, so a little translation would be helpful here."

When he seems reluctant to reply, I press harder. "Was one of them in your group with Branger?" It doesn't make sense, really, given how they were smiling and appeared to be thanking Sherlock. Even I know what _grazie_ means. I'd picked up some other words, too: medical terms such as what sounded like a concussion and something about the spine.

"How do you know the name of the guide?" Sherlock's expression sharpens into something predatory.

"It's not exactly a surprise, Love; you're the one who named me as your emergency contact, and they tried to get in touch with me. Branger found me in A&E last night, and we talked; he'd come by to see how you were, but I told him to let you sleep. The poor guy was pretty shaken up about the death of the other skier."

He seems to mull this over for a while, as Philippe drives us through the outskirts of Sion and starts up the mountain road. I am not going to let Sherlock use it as a deflection to get indignant about me speaking with the guy without him. I want to know who the Italian guys were, but I can wait a bit longer for him to make up his mind. Sometimes, with Sherlock, I can get him to open up more by allowing him a moment of silence. He'd once told me that difficult conversations take him more time to process, to think things through so that the right words come out and to respond to what I have said.

At the first hairpin bend up to Verbier, Sherlock finally shakes his head. "The Italians weren't anything to do with the avalanche. An accident the day before, on the Black Run. They talked their friend into trying the run when he wasn't up to it, and then they didn't stay with him when he was slower. When he fell and was injured, they were already so far down the piste they didn’t see what happened. I called the ski patrol and waited with him until the helicopter evacuation. He's okay."

For a moment, I want to yell at the very idea of him not telling me this before now, but I manage to stifle that urge.

Clenching my jaw, I ask quietly, "Why didn't you tell me this?"

He shrugs. "I didn't want you to worry."

"Sherlock…"

There is an audible sigh. "See? This is what I was trying to avoid. You're getting upset, for no reason. I wasn't hurt. It was a safe run for anyone who knew what they were doing, including me. I didn't actually do much for the Italian guy apart from getting the emergency services involved swiftly. You'd have done the same; you'd have said that this is the sort of thing that every doctor would do if there is a person injured who needs help. But because it's _me_ , you would have used it as a way of lecturing about the risks of skiing and asked me to stop."

 _God, he's right._ I was about to launch into just that lecture, about how his lying to me was wrong and how seeing that happen should have made him come to his senses about these challenging routes, and if I'd known, I would have tried to talk him out of doing the off piste trip.

I can't stop myself before the words are out. "Maybe if I had, you wouldn't have been nearly killed in the avalanche."

He exhales angrily and fixes his gaze on the scenery outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, we certainly do not share Sherlock's extreme views of psychiatrists and their field. In fact, there are reasons for his extreme reticence about that medical specialty, and those will be explored in a future story in this series called _Differential Diagnosis_ which will transport us back to his time as a Cambridge medical student.
> 
> _____________
> 
> Italian translations:  
> Notes:  
> "Look; it's the doctor!"  
> "You were the skier on Mont Fort; you saved his life."  
> "Thank you, a million thanks."  
> "How is your friend?"  
> "He has broken bones: an ankle, shoulder, collarbone. He will recover."  
> "What about his head? And his spine?"  
> "A mild concussion; he is lucky. He was lucky you were there."  
> "Antonio asked us to try to find you so we could thank you. Do you work here?"  
> "No, I am a neurosurgeon from England."  
> "Then you were very kind to help him."  
> "Don't mention it; it was nothing."  
> "You should not have asked him to try the black run; he wanted to look brave. What's worse, you abandoned him. Friends protect each other."  
> "Sure. Goodbye."


	9. We've Wandered Many a Weary Foot

"John? Can I interest you in a glass?" Mycroft gracefully picks up the bottle in front of him on the dining table.

"Yeah, sure," I relent.

My brother-in-law's expertise in wine is mostly wasted on me, but he seems to enjoy educating others, and sometimes I wonder how many people he really has to talk to outside of work. Both brothers can bore for Britain about archaic niche interests; generally, I enjoy listening to Sherlock's version more because his enthusiasm is a wide-eyed boyish kind with only a moderate amount of snide superiority — at least compared to his brother's much snootier approach.

I plant myself in the chair opposite as Mycroft waxes poetic for a moment about the claret we're having. He'd brought it with him from Zurich. Sherlock doesn't drink much alcohol, so this lecture would be wasted on him.

"I've put the champagne in the fridge for midnight. Has Sherlock retired to bed?" He asks after we've each polished off a glass.

"No, he's working, I think."

When I'd left the bedroom, my husband was arranged into the massive double bed with most of the pillows behind his back and two sofa cushions from the lounge for his legs. His shin and ankles are still painfully swollen; I doubt he could fit into any of his shoes right now. The A&E doctor had said it should go down in a day or two.

Sherlock had barely acknowledged me as I leaned in to kiss his cheek; he was frowning at something on his laptop screen. He's been working on some research article like a man possessed; a part of me suspects it's a distraction. He doesn't seek my attention or company, is irritable when someone asks after his health, and avoids physical contact. The two nights we've spent here at the chalet after his discharge have been restless. I don't know whether to give him time and space or gently try to coax him into talking to me. It's as though he's constructed a bubble around him, and he treats everyone else as a nuisance, as just ambient noise. To be honest, I'm looking forward to going home tomorrow. I'm not due back at the hospital until the third of January, which should give me time to get Sherlock's sick leave sorted. Lestrade isn't going to be pleased; I know Sherlock is supposed to be on call the weekend after we are due back, which means they'll have to get another surgeon to cover for it. I doubt there will be any volunteer takers.

Mycroft puts the empty claret bottle in the recycling bin under the kitchen counter. "I hope you can coax him out of his sulk. We have cause to celebrate this evening — his survival being the most important one besides this Christmas having been a success. I know it hasn't been the best of holidays for you, and I am sorry for that. I had hopes that this would be an enjoyable break."

"It was fine, up until it wasn't. Not your fault. Your gift was thoughtful and appreciated. I don't know if he's the sort to thank you for it, but I will." Mycroft is covering the costs of this chalet for all of us.

"He's not on any pain medications that would be incompatible with a bit of Bollinger RD 2004?"

I assume this is the champagne. "No, just paracetamol and ibuprofen." The latter is allowed now that a few days have passed since the accident; his kidneys will have cleared out whatever potentially damaging muscle enzymes had leaked out when his legs got bruised. All of his kidney-related lab work had come back normal at Sion.

"Do you think he'll ski again?" Mycroft looks at his glass thoughtfully. "I suppose that, after a frightful experience, he might want to get back to it promptly. Not with his injuries, of course, but… perhaps in the spring."

Why do people think that's something Sherlock should already be considering at this point? He got hurt doing it, so maybe leave that topic be for some time? I feel indignant — as though it's a slight against me that both his brother and the guide, Branger, are insinuating he should resume. "I don't want to think about whether he'll ski again or not. If it were up to me, then _hell no_."

The wine is warming my cheeks, and I realise I haven't had any dinner. Sherlock obviously couldn't go out to eat with me, so it had just slipped my mind. This is odd; I am usually quite meticulous about observing mealtimes and making sure he does as well.

As it is New Year's Eve, Mycroft had let the chalet chef go home early. I decide that it's time to do some foraging, so I rise to my feet and go to the stocked-to-overflowing fridge, digging out bread, cheese, grapes and some cold meats. I notice there is a new cake there, too — a Sachertorte. More of an Austrian thing, I'm aware, but Sherlock likes it, so perhaps Mycroft had put in a special request. My husband is a fan of apricot jam and things made of chocolate, so enjoying a combination of those is logical.

Mycroft makes himself an open sandwich, then eats it by the kitchen counter — exceptionally casual for the older Holmes — watching me as I put food out onto two plates; one for me and one for Sherlock.

"John," he prompts as he pats crumbs off his fingers into the sink after putting his plate in the sink.

"Yeah?"

"I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to advise you on your marriage, but with Sherlock, I suspect a man might need all the help he can get."

My grin is wry and a little bit sheepish as I admit, "You'd be right."

Mycroft retrieves his glass and leans on the dining table. "He's always reacted with anger, dismissal, avoidance and even dissociation to situations which provoke a very specific emotion: _fear_. He is, at best, terrible at picking apart his emotions; as a child and teenager, he always reacted on instinct instead of conducting any kind of self-reflection."

"And he hates being labelled as someone who needs help," I add, but don't mention what comes to my mind — that this tendency is even more pronounced when it comes to mental health stuff. I look at the plate I have made for him; I've filled it with too much. It will just put him off, so I push a third of it off onto my own. The few morsels I have slipped into my mouth so far have made me realise I'm quite ravenous. I scan the contents of his plate once more to make sure I haven't accidentally included anything he hates, such as filled olives. He once told me they make him think of pickled testicles. Or was that lychee?

"The assumption that he needed constant assistance and supervision was a defining feature of his childhood, thanks to our mother," Mycroft muses. "I am unsurprised that he would bristle at any attempt by you to limit what he does."

I'm not anything like Violet, and Sherlock should know that by now. My love for him doesn't come with a set of rules, let alone the high price of needing to change and to deny or hide core traits of who he is. Old habits try hard, though; Mycroft is right in that. 'But it's _me_ ' I want to shout in the direction of the bedroom. It's because I love Sherlock that I find none of the adjustments I make for him a burden.

"He may have been able to gain autonomy from our parents, but he worries greatly about your reactions and your opinions."

"If he worries so much about that, why would he do this stuff?" I swallow down the last drops from my glass of water.

"You dislike his more extreme hobbies. Perhaps he fears you will use this incident to dissuade him from ever skiing again, and that he doesn't have any good counter-arguments."

"He doesn't and why wouldn't I?"

Mycroft is a tad bit presumptuous in his analysis, but he does know Sherlock well. _Knew_ him well, as a teen and a child. I know him _now_.

"Will he be willing to examine your motives, or simply lash out at what he'll see as an attempt to control him?"

"I already apologised for being pissed off at him at the hospital." In a crisis, Sherlock's solution is either burying himself in work or behaving like a five-year-old. "Whether he'll ski again is hardly the most pressing point. Right now, he needs to talk to me about what happened. For his sake more than mine."

"I couldn't tell you how to get him to communicate. Talking has never been his strong suit or something he has sought out to alleviate his anxiety."

Definitely a key sherlockian feature, yes. Words are not his friends when he's upset. "I guess he just needs time to process things."

"Assuming he knows _how_."

"Well, _I_ don't know, either!" I pinch the bridge of my nose, shake my head. I had tried to convince myself things are alright, that we're still on holiday, that my husband being prickly, quiet and withdrawn shouldn't ruin things for the rest of us and that Sherlock wouldn't want anyone fussing over him, anyway.

Maybe my outburst is a sign that I've been bloody tense, too. "Half of the time, I want to believe that he really _is_ fine — that what happened just won't affect him the way it does other people."

"Has there ever been an emotionally taxing thing which did not affect him _more_ than the average person?" Mycroft asks.

I guess, after a shared childhood watching Sherlock react intensely to things other children didn't even notice or just shrugged off, his brother has got a point. I'm not going to ask what his parents did in such situations; I have sworn never to take a single Sherlock-management tip from Violet Holmes. That woman is a big part of the reason for much of why our relationship and Sherlock's career and his social life has been such a minefield. Yes, I know it's largely because he's on the Spectrum, but there are constructive ways to deal with that and destructive ways to do so. Teaching your kid to express negative feelings and listening to them respectfully were not things found in Violet's bag of tricks.

"This is where you tell me I'm a saint for putting up with him," I suggest bitterly.

"No," Mycroft says sternly. "It has been a joy and a relief to witness him find someone he can love and rely upon. Though our mother finds it hard to let go and believe the two of you have a firm grasp on managing your lives, I find doing that to be no trouble at all. I worried about him, too, constantly, before he met you. He has always been so dreadfully lonely."

I don't like the notion that I'm some knight in white, swooping in to save him. Sherlock has worked hard to get to where he is professionally, and he's worked hard to learn to manage with people better. He's also put in a hell of a lot of work into our relationship, more than I have deserved at times. But, of course, I can't deny that those things have been harder for him than most. Maybe it just frustrates the fuck out of me that after all this time, I'm left feeling rather clueless about how to help him with what has happened. If I give him space, he takes it and then demands more. If I try to talk to him, he bites my head off. If I dare to suggest he should talk to someone else, he acts as though I've condemning him to walk the plank or want to lock him into some asylum.

A thought occurs: if he wants to pretend that he's fine, what would happen if I play along? I don't want to push him, but l am afraid that leaving him to his own devices will not work.

"Want to watch something?" I suggest to Mycroft.

Perhaps distraction therapy will work to stop me fretting. Like Sherlock, Mycroft's taste in films is narrow and sometimes seems to repel entertainment, but there's got to be something in the extensive collection of DVDs and BluRays and the streaming services available in this chalet that we could both enjoy.

"I believe I spotted the 1984 version of The Little Drummer Girl on the shelf." Mycroft rises from his seat, glass in hand. "It would pass the time until midnight."

Acceptable choice. I remember reading the book a few years back. Sherlock won't generally touch fiction; he prefers nonfiction to what he calls 'childishly simple plotlines and imbeciles' attempt at constructing mysteries', but even he'd managed a more recent John Le Carré book pilfered from me on our last holiday. 

"I could ask if Sherlock wants to join us," I suggest.

"Good idea."

I doubt Mycroft really enjoys his brother's tendency to offer critical commentary throughout a movie, but obviously, we're both concerned enough about him that getting him to spend some time not holed up in the bedroom would be an improvement. And he needs to eat. Nibbling on what is on his plate while watching the film might help get something resembling a meal down without a confrontation. "Take our plates in, and I will see if I can roust him out."

However, when I go back to our bedroom, Sherlock has dozed off with his laptop still open. His glasses have slipped down his nose in a way that makes him look adorably academic.

At first, I don't recognise the notes he's made on pieces of paper that are strewn across the bed — calculations of angles and such. A glance at the screen tells me more: it's an online version of a textbook. _Dynamics of Snow and Ice Masses_ by Samuel Colbeck. All this time, I assumed he's working on one of his own research projects. Why's he reading about this?

The answer comes to me as my eyes drift from one piece of paper to the next. I spot familiar names of ski routes on his scribblings. In typical Sherlockian fashion, he's trying to _solve it_ : he doesn't know how to process what happened, so he's approaching it like an equation. It won't work, of course, since the questions which likely plague him the most cannot be answered with mathematics. But he still tries, because this is the way he knows and is comfortable with.

I am hit with a fresh wave of affection for him and sit beside him on the bed; he's in the middle, so there's plenty of room. The mattress dipping changes his breathing pattern a bit; he's probably in just a light sleep since he's not snoring while on his back. 

I touch his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

He hums, pinching his eyes closed even tighter before opening them blearily.

"What's the time?" he mutters, as though he'd really care about midnight or New Year's. He never fails to rant about the whole thing is just an arbitrary Western construct which many Asian nations do not adhere to at all; they have their own calendars. You can probably imagine how popular Sherlock would be at New Year's parties, assuming I could convince him to attend one in the first place.

"Only seven in the evening. Want to come watch a film with us?"

"Did Mycroft pick it?" Suspicious, already dismissive.

"Nothing's been definitely chosen yet."

He doesn't say no, so I offer my arm, which he accepts so he can pull himself to a sitting position. I realise it's been at least six hours since he's had any pain meds, so we'll need to sort that out in the kitchen. His hair is a mess, and he looks tired. He needs food and fluids and something else to do than obsessing about avalanche physics.

  
______________  
  
  


"I still think the plot is too complicated to be grasped by the modern cinema audience."

Sherlock announces this from a prone position. He is stretched out on the sofa, his legs elevated on some cushions and his head in my lap, where I am idly carding my fingers through his hair. Am I happy that the film has distracted us both from the events of the past few days? _Yes._ Am I ecstatic that he's using me as a pillow instead of keeping his distance? _God, yes_.

"I'll be back just before midnight to open our special bottle. So, stay decent." Mycroft disappears into his bedroom for a bit, probably to give us some time and space alone.

His comment makes me briefly wonder if he's picked up on some of our lovemaking before the accident. Given Sherlock's injuries, I won't be attempting much more than a kiss and cuddle tonight. It's enough for me that Sherlock's shoulders are relaxed, and his eyes are closed. The food, water and the paracetamol seem to have done the trick.

Maybe some conversation about the film will too, so I reply to his assessment: "It is a bit complicated, I agree, but I thought Diane Keaton was good as Charlie."

He snorts, tipping his head back so he can look up at me. "How hard is it for an actress to play an actress?"

I pat his dark mop of hair. "Not easy if that role means she has to be believable to both the Israelis and the Palestinians. And, it destroyed her in the end. Living a lie isn't easy."

His eyes leave mine, shifting to the flickering flames in the fireplace. "Lies are a social lubricant."

"I thought that was booze."

"Everybody lies, John. It's vital to being a social animal. We are taught from an early age never to say what we really think."

If I don't take this opportunity, I feel like I will regret it, so I ask, "What is the cost of that strategy? Maybe we should all just say what we think and be done with it. I've always appreciated your honesty; it's one of the things I love the most about you." I'm kneading the tight bundles of muscles at the nape of his neck with my thumb and forefinger. He's closed his eyes, seems to be enjoying the attention.

"Only as far as those truths don't offend you. And, that's not what people usually say about my honesty."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

I laugh. "Nope. I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."

Sherlock's lids open and I look into his swirly pools of verdigris eyes that are smiling at me. "Then you are certifiably mad, Doctor Watson."

"Mad about you, affirmative."

His eyelids close again, and I resume fondling his curls. I am afraid to break the mood, but I want to take advantage of how relaxed he is to try to create a conversation. I curse my own ineptitude when it comes to talking about difficult emotions; if I do this wrong, it could sour the whole evening and drive him even deeper into denial. Pots and kettles…

"Sherlock…"

A sleepy _hmmm_ is all the reply I get. "Talking about certifiable… you rather eviscerated that psychiatrist at Sion. What is it that gets you so riled up about psychiatrists in general? You don't have that reaction to Joanne Pichler."

A frown wrinkles his brows. "I meant what I said. Charlatans, the whole lot of them. Witches' cauldrons, chanting spells, dishing out potions. Quackery. It's completely subjective; they take it upon themselves to define what 'normal' looks like, then judge someone against that artificial construct. One psychiatrist can't agree with another one. It's criminal to call it medicine."

"Whoa… that's a lot of prejudice in there. A lot of it's based on neuroscience, now; we know how the medications work and what receptors they rebalance."

"I'll accept modern psychopharmacology as long as the number-needed-to-treat statistics are credible. But they never test things on neuroatypicals before putting them on the market, so what use is any of it to me? The rest is utter claptrap and nonsense."

"Does that include what you do with Pichler? I thought that you've had a pretty good therapeutic relationship."

His eyes snap open again, and I swear now they are more icy blue than green. "I _consult_ her, seek her professional opinion about various strategies on how to cope with the idiots in my life. It's _my_ choice; my decision, not something foisted on me by some outsider who has decided what I should or should not be doing or saying." His shoulder muscles are getting tighter, now — a ball of anxiety I can feel taking shape in my lap. "She respects the boundaries I set, unlike that _witch_ at Sion."

"Okay. I get that. Will you talk to Pichler about the avalanche?" 'Since you won't talk to me', I am tempted to add.

Sherlock struggles to sit up, and I have to help. He swings his legs off the cushions and onto the ottoman so he can heave himself up into a sitting position. No longer in physical contact with me, he eyes me warily.

"Well?" I'm not prepared to let this go.

"Not needed. It was an accident. No one's fault. Why is everyone expecting me to be psychologically traumatised by it?"

"I don't know… maybe something about being trapped, helpless, in pain and afraid of dying? That's enough, isn't it?"

"John, if you were dying, in your very last few seconds, what would you think? What would you say?"

The answer is on my lips before a conscious thought of it even surfaces. "Please, God, let me live and see Sherlock again."

Exasperated, Sherlock snaps, "Oh, use your imagination!"

"I don't _have_ to." I've never told this to anyone, never voiced out loud what I thought on that precise moment, what the last memory I formed before passing out was. "I just thought of you."

He glares back at me. "That's the point, my point _exactly_. You told me that, when you were shot in Afghanistan, you thought about what my reaction was going to be. Well, _ta-da_! I'm normal in this regard. I thought about how pissed off you were going to be at me."

It's the way he says it that makes my eyes tear up. The onslaught of emotion is sudden, and the embarrassment over displaying it takes me a moment to process. I swallow and remind myself that this is too important to retreat from even if I feel a bit embarrassed. "That's not what I… I wouldn't be _angry_ , Sherlock. I'd be _devastated_. Well, yes, I'd probably be angry, too, but mostly just… do you really understand how much I love you?"

He reaches out, using a finger to trace the trail of the tear as it goes down my cheek. "Yes, I do. Because I felt the same about you when I thought you were dead in Afghanistan, and about to die of Dengue in Malawi. I'm sorry, John. This… this… _sentiment_ , this bloody nonsense––" He bites his lip. " _Loving_ _hurts_."

I nod. "Yeah, it does."

"Don't ask me to stop skiing. Statistically speaking, I am more likely to die crossing a road in London than I am on a ski slope. I didn't stop you from going to Afghanistan, and we weren't afraid to go to Malosa. We can manage this."

We can manage, or _he_ can manage? "You understand my concerns, though, don't you?"

"Of course. Concern is an aspect of caring. I am concerned when you are not well, when things are going badly for you at work. I understand your concern when I am doing things that make you but not me uncomfortable. I will endeavour to minimise risk and to control whatever is possible to control. I want you to be _happy_. I want those things to be compatible. I need you to tell me they can be." He grunts in frustration.

"Is that what you're trying to solve, then? Trying to work out why it happened where and when it happened, so it couldn't happen again?"

"You've been spying on me." His accusation lack gunpowder.

"You fell asleep with your laptop open. I know you don't take unnecessary risks; that skiing guide who dug you out said the same. I am happy. Happy you're alive. Happy we're together. Happy New Year, Sherlock."

He raises a brow sardonically, then glances at the clock over the fireplace. "There's still an hour to go."

I grin at his inevitable literalness. "Then, let's put the time to good use before your brother arrives to spoil things." I scoot closer to where he is sitting, put my hand on the nape of his neck and pull him into a kiss. I resist the urge to pull him against me for fear I'll disturb his cracked rib.

When Mycroft does finally arrive back in the living room at ten to twelve, he gives a huff and an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Good Lord. Just when I thought it was safe…"

"Shut up, Mycroft."

The effect of our both saying this while exploring each other's lips is somewhat diluted by my snicker and Sherlock's chuckle.

Mycroft soon returns, carrying a tray with three champagne flutes and an ice bucket.

Sherlock leans in again. "Time for one more kiss before this officious waiter demands our attention."

The pop of the cork is perfectly timed as the clock starts to chime.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock and John. Or, should I say, menace of a sibling and brother-in-law?" 

We're still grinning when we reply in unison, "Happy New Year, Mycroft."

— The end —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the series started by Seven penning a one-shot post-Christmas gift to J. Baillier, as a thank you for wonderful willingness to others occasionally play with her boys. And then she did that thing — you know, getting invested as a beta to the point where she couldn't help herself — so this ended up having a LOT of J's contributions in terms of original text. The two doctors wouldn't co-operate and kept demanding more and more, and took us hostage for nearly 40,000 words.
> 
> This final chapter title is from Auld Lang Syne, which undoubtedly Mycroft bellowed drunk from the balcony of the chalet at midnight. Or not.
> 
> What's next for these doctor boys, you may ask? Here is [a masterpost detailing the MANY upcoming stories](https://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/613278589973102592/the-you-go-to-my-head-series-masterpost-20) in this series!
> 
> \------------------------------------------------
> 
> Note on the 31st March 2020: after this story finished posting, the Covid epidemic hit, and J. Baillier penned a short story which is not part of the official time line of the series, but takes place in this AU. It's called _[Plagues and Locusts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411305)_.
> 
> Finally, as a wonderful bonus treat we have a fanart commission from the amazing Cecilia GF. Please support her by visiting and following her at [Tumblr](https://cecilia-gf.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ThanatosOfNicte), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/thanatosofnicte/) or [Redbubble](https://www.redbubble.com/people/thanatosofnicte).


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